says a lady with pointy chin and a blunt knife.
Inconveniences stacked high in the room,
enough to skip a real meal,
another fancy conversation, a couple of hollow exchanges of dark eyes.
Clean your room,
says a lady with black stringy hair.
Smooth plain blank walls in sync with her expressions.
Ideas, nostalgia, daydreaming, disagreements turned to war of dominance scattered around, not knowing from where to start, the room is somehow messier after an afternoon nap.
A person's grief, sufferings, a lot more to make an unusual picture, the relativity quotient is a hoax like structure of combination of words.
There's never been an open door, a window opens to coldness and another's another window, distorted, diluted boundaries of time, questioning realness, clinging to anything that lets you skip this current reality.
The wrong kind of familiarity sticking around, at times, time is an escape, a belief in a reality, a dive into mundanity, painting boundaries of time, to be washed away on a hopeful spring day.