ph: devina
ryohei's "the game we played" was playing at a loud volume in her earphones. the night air carried a chill, unlikely at first, then after a while her skin had adapted itself to reality. the blasts. the waves. the powerful currents that carried fate contained inside layers of clear membranes. the night's battle was the cold pavements against the thick soles of her combat boots. she thought she could always stomp.stomp.stomp. carried a certain rhythm with her. stomp.stomp.stomp. she only wanted to build her own bridge between fantasy and reality. she would like somebody to tell her that she was only a nice, simple, lost girl who loved to listen to songs which genres are almost undefinable. facts didn't ring true. she was inside a glass ball, and it was not about to let the outer air pressure in through the layers.
even if the air was let in, what would be retrieved inside her was the scent of aged pages in a book.
