Words,
beautiful threads of flowing, silky letters hung from her, covering
her in a verbal gown. Her hair was decorated with brilliant reds,
simple love hearts dotted about with frequency, and she spoke with a
cursive typeface. Her voice was lined with soft commas and passionate
exclamations. But as I stared at her, I realised her complexion was
growing strange to me. I reached out to her, but I felt not the
warmth of flesh, only the coldness and
distance of text. I threw my phone across the room and walked away
from the sharpness of her script.
This is a piece of prose drabble that became more like prose poetry... Oh well!
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