The angels are weeping again. They mourn for the thousand lives lost, shattered, displaced, left—not realizing that the tears they shed continues to bring tragedy and despair; the irony of having sympathy bring forth unexpected disaster and huge-scale destruction.
If only God would be as kind to remind them of their blunder.
Sleep remains elusive, forcing me to hold out on another meeting with the girl of my dreams. I can picture her now, a vivid image of darkness and a scarlet dress, only having a view of her long, jet-black hair that cascades onto the almost-invisible floor with her back turned on me, standing beneath a flickering lamp post, still as a doll, waiting to be dreamt... waiting to become real. What she looks like, I will probably never learn. For this, my utmost gratitude to sleep.
The choral symphony of the ticking antique clock and water droplets chased the professional crickets temporarily out of business as they make for appropriate background music of this particular scene from my life movie. I see the characters play their roles well—the mockery of portraits on the wall askew, the grand battle of the lizards of the ceiling, the solitary shoe in a monologue atop the stairs, the loving embrace of the blanket. There is no theme for the story to revolve in; dialogues between actors do not exist. Neither written script nor screenplay was made for the part. The director does not care; the producer, nowhere to be found. One thing is certain, however: my curtain will only fall if I decide to stop this little charade.
The angels are weeping again. I wish they would cry instead.
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