(no subject)
Frozen longan is good.........just like nature's own, artificially preserved, ice cream. But, I miss fresh longan...and chom chom...and lychee...
I miss Asia. I wanna go home
Saigon, Seattle <---all the cities I love start with an 'S'.
She sits on the floor, cross legged, eyes closed and oblivious. The room is dark, shrouded in an indifferent kind of shadow, except for the small window that she sits by. Feeble moonlight enters from this one window, so out of place in such a deliberately gloomy room, and shyly tip-toes along the surface of her face. The effect is that her skin, already pale, is now a subtle shade of gray.
She's always here at night, when everyone else has surrendered to their dreams. Alone, in the dark, singing with a voice of one whose heart is irreparably shattered. The same haunting melody every night, one where each note is agonizingly drawn out, like a slow, torturous death.
It's a private ritual, I know. And as a stranger, a mere guest in her home, I have no right to intrude, but she doesn’t seem to mind, so I lean against the heavy doorway and simply listen. The record player is old, and the record itself is worn and scratched, so the song always ends before the final line can be sung.
A meager shadow of the masterpiece it originally was, sung by a girl who believes herself to be a mere shadow, an empty replacement, of the original singer.
The song is over now, the private concert concluded, and as she walks pass me, she whispers-to me, or herself, or both:
“I still can’t reach the high note.”
Then she is gone, the silence comes swooping in to regain dominion over the room. Still, I’m only a guest, and I have no right to meddle in family matters.
Yep, mister Poe has wreaked havoc on my writing style.
I miss Asia. I wanna go home
Saigon, Seattle <---all the cities I love start with an 'S'.
She sits on the floor, cross legged, eyes closed and oblivious. The room is dark, shrouded in an indifferent kind of shadow, except for the small window that she sits by. Feeble moonlight enters from this one window, so out of place in such a deliberately gloomy room, and shyly tip-toes along the surface of her face. The effect is that her skin, already pale, is now a subtle shade of gray.
She's always here at night, when everyone else has surrendered to their dreams. Alone, in the dark, singing with a voice of one whose heart is irreparably shattered. The same haunting melody every night, one where each note is agonizingly drawn out, like a slow, torturous death.
It's a private ritual, I know. And as a stranger, a mere guest in her home, I have no right to intrude, but she doesn’t seem to mind, so I lean against the heavy doorway and simply listen. The record player is old, and the record itself is worn and scratched, so the song always ends before the final line can be sung.
A meager shadow of the masterpiece it originally was, sung by a girl who believes herself to be a mere shadow, an empty replacement, of the original singer.
The song is over now, the private concert concluded, and as she walks pass me, she whispers-to me, or herself, or both:
“I still can’t reach the high note.”
Then she is gone, the silence comes swooping in to regain dominion over the room. Still, I’m only a guest, and I have no right to meddle in family matters.
Yep, mister Poe has wreaked havoc on my writing style.