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The Window


Lately, she was obsessed with the way the wind whooshed up against the window, making a swooshing noise as each particle of the moving air flowed against the dirty glass of the window. She stared with only a blank expression, not a single word could be heard drip, drip, dripping out of her mouth; but as I watched her from the doorway, it was apparent to me that the wheels in her had were turning. I looked around the room, knowing that that day was no different that that day before, and the day before. Not sure of what  I was looking for, but knowing it was a something. The mirror still covered with the drapes that once hung, flowing in the once cooling breeze that was now the wind, that whooshed against the window. I looked at her, observed her, wondering what it was that made her tick, tick, tick until she was no more, she become numb to the damage she inflicts on herself; Lately she had become more acquainted with her eyelids. The only time she showed a shear of emotion was at 4pm each day, when the church bells rang and the man selling apple pies walked home, each footstep he made triggered her foot to tap tap tap. Each step he took rang in her head until the man was out of sight. Her foot lay still, her eyes lay glued to the dirty window; And then it faded until she couldn't hear it at all.






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