Insomnia. Such an ugly word. Leaden, without euphoria. An anchor lays on the chest, all sunken in the sea of reality.
A feather in the soaring wing, pricked. Then, comes the fall. An arc ruffles the pinnacle of pine trees.
Waiting for the climb. Waiting...
2 comments:
hello sir, hope things are well with you. =)
What's with the "Sir"? Things are fine, Madam. Things are just fine. Heehee.
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