prose thingy i jotted down
Uhh...
Yeah.
Weekend in mid-December, the frost on trees glitter like white ghosts in the shivering light of dusk. Cold air, brazen, thrashes against the window like an old woman’s cough, dry and brittle and abrasive to his ears. He will cover up his hands before the dwindling fire, in the premature silence of death and the stillness of loneliness, in the absence of warmth and creature-comfort, between the folds of moldy notebooks and photograph pages is his heart. He has been waiting for years for the girl with the pretty voice, a lyrical lilting speech and her giggles, phantom kisses for his ears. She never came. He holds his breath and waits, as the ashes in the fireplace pile higher, as the dawn creeps up again on still, silent haunches.
**
Reading Stephen King's "On Writing". I bought this a while ago, but never got around to reading it. It's very good so far.
Yeah.
Weekend in mid-December, the frost on trees glitter like white ghosts in the shivering light of dusk. Cold air, brazen, thrashes against the window like an old woman’s cough, dry and brittle and abrasive to his ears. He will cover up his hands before the dwindling fire, in the premature silence of death and the stillness of loneliness, in the absence of warmth and creature-comfort, between the folds of moldy notebooks and photograph pages is his heart. He has been waiting for years for the girl with the pretty voice, a lyrical lilting speech and her giggles, phantom kisses for his ears. She never came. He holds his breath and waits, as the ashes in the fireplace pile higher, as the dawn creeps up again on still, silent haunches.
**
Reading Stephen King's "On Writing". I bought this a while ago, but never got around to reading it. It's very good so far.