A tiny window could barely indicate what time it was by the lack of sunlight streaming in. Darkness had been an issue from the moment she had entered the room. At her desk, a ring of light coming from a small mirror illuminated her face. It looked paler at night, eyes haunted by words left unsaid. Sentences slithered from her head to her hands and crawled over the notebook on her lap. Writing in layers and layers in writing. Nothing was meant to be written as it was. The reader only reads what he seeks, the writer writes for his eyes only.
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21 feb. 2024
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