Time itself feels as if though it ceists to exist. I remember the events as if though they were only yesterday. My writer, she returned to write upon my pages.
Yet again she wrote very little, she bagan with Hello and slowly continued down my page.
The pen she wrote with marked my pages in a solid smooth blue ink, different form the black she had used before. The feel of the nib against my skin felt awkward and ruff.
As she continued to write her pace grew, slowly at first and then faster, her neat letters transfigured into messy cursive. No longer could I follow her words. She slowed again.
Just before she shut my cover on her entry, she scribbled just slow enough to make out, Happy Easter
I sit now, contemplating in the dark of the box I remain shut in, What is Easter?
 Artimis_Night · Sat Apr 23, 2011 @ 06:58am · 0 Comments |
