fragmented

The Ebb and Flow

A living Thing

Winter, Autumn, Summer, Spring

I Rise, I Fall, I Rise

It was like flipping through a book. It was a canvas portraying an infinite number of mirrors. I was watching a woman sitting a row below me. Her fingers. The way she was putting them on her lips. One could hear the rustle of paper, but tears and the sustainable bitterness lodged somewhere deep in her throat belongs to the most silent things in this world. The woman’s lips disappeared. She had to paint them again. One or two strokes of her lipstick and that was it. (wish I could remember what was that about; no title or context surviving)