blackswan

I am not who I was yesterday. Unforeseen and unforsaken—I am an old film; I am fading out among the lives of the sounding feet in a train station. I am aging within the rotting poem of a widower, words of greatness, yet no one could name her. Perhaps it is not as astonishing as the booklet of a romance novel. She'd write the abysmal of sickness and touch what normal people wouldn't—it is indifferent to what she inarticulately desires to convey. Life's branching out before her; the hand that feeds her has worn out knuckles; it couldn't grasp her existence even with closed fingers. She ages like rain, like her misery—no one could stop it.