Outside from that warm bed
We are a dream they dream.
Their eyelids keep the shade.
No harm can come to them.
We cast our skins and slide
Into another time.
—Sylvia Plath
Night had crawled over the city's brightest state alongside its purple legion. the fates were now up to them to decide as their movements unintentionally interlocked each other...
HE WAS VAST ASLEEP, in a worn-out white t-shirt and over-sized pair of old Levi’s, shoes off. His perfect blond-dyed hair looked like a spoonful of spilled honey on milk on the stark-white pillow sheet. His longish eyelashes stroked the skin right below his closed eyelids gently as he breathed in, breathed out, restoring the tired cells in his body as well as putting them into rest by each fresh air inhaled. Earphones were still attached to his ears, and the excessive loudness of the music had sent several funky beats of Nona Reeves’s “Changin’” charging around the air closest to his ears.
A messed-up Kipling backpack belonged to his best friend sprawled beside the relaxed figure. It was apparent that the bag had been ransacked by someone who clearly wasn’t the owner himself because the bag's owner left about an hour ago. Several bars of KitKat had been mercilessly ripped out of its foil wrappings; two cans of orange Fanta were now two empty cans ready for the trash bin. A book peaked out shyly from underneath a balled-up used white shirt—a collection of Dylan Thomas’ poems. Masculine scent of CKIN2U For Him leaked out from beneath the rumpled fabrics, but it didn’t seem to affect the sleeping man.
