The Pink Clouds

𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓪𝓼 𝓷𝓸 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓷 !!!

~𝐹𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑆ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑃𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑒𝑑,𝑆𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤,𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑎𝑐,𝑆𝑒𝑥𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑎𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠,𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝐼 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑛???~v=

BEFORE ***

𝓢𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰

I hesitantly get up to remode in the morning star's face, God shakes my head up and my eyes tell me the day was going to be a big nothingness. I see red rays coloring my lazy blues and covering my shitty skin in different warmth.

The warmth of:

"Fuck it, get up, Luna "

Honestly did what my ass couldn't do...

As I try to drag the cupboard's drawer, unhappily it gets broken like the other half expected-so life. I scream out loud by swearing:

"Not again! Ahhh...Go to hell !"

Nervously hit the parmaque with bare fingers and 𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩* eye-opened see entire hesitation turning into a bloody, meaningless day. I clutch my knee as hard to hamper hurting from possessing my good omen. I put clothes on and screeching, bad fabric untie...I see under me and wow like a MESS.

"This, huh...God !"

Moaning, sacrificing time I turn my hazel hair as fast as can upwards. Tie them and meanwhile keep wearing the naughty other, grey jeans.

With one breathe, brown-colored bags and books hump into my back quirkily-staring my laziness, walking down the dark mazes of conviction: "Sorority NEW YORK COLLEGE OF LANGUAGES "

EYES IRREGULARLY RUN THROUGH DESPERATE HALLWAYS AND IRRITATED crash my haste into some sort of Antic Walls.

Finally, find the way out of boredom and castle of "Noone's".

𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗷𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗷𝘂𝗻𝗸𝘆, 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘁,𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗶𝗽𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆 𝘁𝘆𝗽𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗠𝗢𝗗𝗘.

𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗘𝗦 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗟𝗘 𝗥𝗨𝗡𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗦𝗞𝗜𝗣𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗜𝗘 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗦𝗨𝗗𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗟𝗬 ,𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗧𝗢 𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞 𝗜𝗧* 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘂𝗻𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘁.𝗪𝗶𝗳𝗳 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗶𝘁.

New York is in chaos as the little grey mixed in the blue sky seems so missed up and rushed.

Thousands of people, cars driving feet, tires lunatic...

*Writhing in fear and collapse of losing work, I put my ass into a long-running marathon, hair caught by the breeze and a very weak-quality ribbon made of pink. While clashing head to head with people of the same hurry, I hide my "wig" under, glaring at the brazen, tormented, grey sidewalk.

Hurrying and gasping impossibly, stepping into high grounds and sighing deranged. Lost of orientation, Little Nokia of Melancholia calls me out, hardly digging for it by the bottom of brown, leather, a bit-nicked case, I open angrily: