Free fall.

The rain had stopped. The sky was clear and the world drenched. There were droplets accumulated at the tips of the leaves, about to drop off and be in their free form. Somehow they were still holding onto the green surfaces.

Somewhere near, someone was trying to vent out all the unuttered words gathered up over time. Somehow, the ink still adhered to the tip of the nib, unable to become the voice.

Published by A Hopeless Anachronism

Dancer | Reader | Writer | Traveller | Videographer | Researcher | Engineer

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