La Plume des Enimistes

This is the time when it all finally started, at two minutes past two o'clock. After around four days of anxiety and a continuous bursting fire of writing, of letting it all out, tatooing it on a paper's pure white skin, setting it on black fire. The only thing i could be looking at, besides the paper on my lap, is this angelic sweet face, softly blossoming next to me. Her black hair, with a faiding reddish end, was all artistically spread on the silky white sheat. Her beautiful expressions kept discretly changing little by little, as she slept sky-dancing on the tunes of a demonic saxophone. One second, her pretty little smile seemed as a perfect painting under a cute chubby nose. Though the next time i glanced at her, her light black eyebrows were frowned and her closed eyes appeared as two pearls hidden in their shells. Suddenly and out of the blue, the face she had at that exact second, was the ignitive sparkle of remembering the dream i had of her the night before, or was it a nightmare... There in a blurry shining white fog, we were walking along that long street straight up the hill. As we were passing by that shady dark street on our right, returning behind that old spooky school, she suddenly checked her watch. And then, insisting that it was already two minutes past two o'clock, she would take that road back to the house. As obvious as it could be, i was passionately in need for more walking. Hence, each one went through his own path, and as i was making my way to that faraway top of the street, i started humming that old clingy song going like: " So why don't you meet me, down behind the old school, we'll remember the fires, the burning car tir...". Only i realised i wasn't going behind the old school with her, she was going all alone, entering that dark void filled with memories. They are our memories together, but she might find out that all she'll find is memories, and i might be their next to her to laugh our asses about them. Or wouldn't i..?