September 22, 2011
Clear blue and white clouds morph into different shapes. Bicycles roll down narrow, dirt paths. Down past the paths, past the town, a house stands, meadows all around. Brass numbers hang on the door; the wooden barrier protects a mess of plaid and denim. Everywhere, strewn across couches, along the hallway, the chaos only lit by glowing rays, peaking through the window. In the bedroom, however, there is nothing. No clothes tossed on the floors, no mess, just a bed and wardrobe. A corner of fabric sticks out, black, silk, it's stuck in the doors. There's a window, a window that looks out on the meadow. At night, stars glitter; blue dances with black, and there's a face by the window.

She sits,
She watches,
She waits for the sunrise,
Hoping the mayhem will clean itself.

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