In a blink, a dark shadows crosses. It's always so fast that I doubt it's real.93Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIyKKwlWw3n
During mornings, I sit in a straight-back posture at my work desk. A writer is my job, a horror story teller. A dreamer is what I am. As clicking sounds fill my room, and ideas taking up my brain, all my soul is poured into the words. Every single letter is like one stroke of paint on a masterpiece artwork, careful yet bold. My eyes tends to feel dry after an hour or so. I close the windows of my soul, but a dark-gray shadow swooshes over in a second. There it is.
Afternoons when I'm all cuddled up on the couch reading a book, it's there. Sinking into the context, I'm Ivy inside the Dark House...The maid just turned into a doll sitting on a chair in front of the screen we were watching. Then, through the windows and curtains, the bright, mid-day sun darkens but fights over it again. Slight winds then whisper pass my ears with a tingling touch as the ornaments I hang ring and bump against another. I continue to read my thick 500-paged book of horrors I enjoy.
It doesn't show in the dark night, gone and blended to the sky. The glistening moon can't help me, using the faint, pure light that doesn't even appear sometimes.93Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpwYw1gohX6
