Four hours before midnight, I sat glancing at the half empty cup in front of me. The black aroma permeating in the air would've warmed me, but it didn't. How distressing can a cup of coffee be on a cold July night?
I reached for the papyrus and began scribbling-hoping to find solace in the written art.
I have trust issues. My mother won't-
No. No. That's too direct.
How does a butterfly, let go of it's shellwhen the fig twigs tangle its freedom?How doth a flower bloomwhen winter in it's bleak glory,brings about it's doom?
Superficial, I reckon. But that is enough for tonight, at least. I stared once again at the cup and dipped a cookie. I watched it dissolve into mushy madness.