Today, I tried not to remember her. She is like a big stubborn speck on my glasses. It blocks my vision or rather shields me in its feeble attempt from the hopelessness that lies outside.
There is a strange paralysis of thought when she enters the senses. The memory is so overwhelming, words crash against each other and break before I can offer the only hope to myself through thoughts and escape from these walls.
She is lost. With every passing hour, she is turning grey. The brush has stopped moving because perhaps the artist lies dead in his own pool of red. Red? The colour forms no impression in the mind. It's her, and the grey.
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