Anika stood in the middle of a strange place full of strange people and thought to herself,

Put up my notebook on a shelf, And laid in its sheaves a crimson rose.

Leo had just finished his painting. He took a few steps away from the canvas to have a better look – a lady standing on a landscape with a pale smile.

The soil, it sings with what was here.

I am writing to you from our barren bed, watching as your shadow moves just outside the room, beyond my reach.

"Are you happy?" June asks Lazmere.

The office started to clear out once the overhead clock struck five.

“Hello, good morning to you,” said one of the butterflies.

You are still the most familiar stranger I know.

The time I clapped my hands to kill the bothersome mosquito, I began to ponder on life. 

Did you hear about the latest sensation in town?

I didn’t know the endings to most of the stories as I fell asleep halfway.

Perhaps this time, the storyteller is the story to be told.

They will consider me nothing but a body that has stopped functioning after my death.

Familiarity has its uncanny essence, like patchwork sewn by your mother.

Too much education gets into these girls’ heads.

I always found the aftermath of even the lightest of rain showers to be too messy for my liking. That is, until global warming brought about a heatwave capable of causing existential crisis because you cannot discern between being alive and having melted away.

With a twinkle in their eyes and a question forming on their lips, when they come knocking at my door, what shall I say?

Noun. Abstract. That which cannot be touched.

They say I'm a new person everyday