Entitled: Untitled

19:29.

There are times when the heavy bass of the music seemed weirdly synchronized with everything in sight, and while it is in a way a satisfactory, she'd prefer it when her surrounding is instead, a jumbled mess of mismatched noises and movements, like jazz, where every instrument plays different melodies, each being the main act of their own gigs, some with their own crowds, some with none at all.

Some distant thuds of wooden soles were racing with the clicks of heels that closely followed, overlapping with a group's chatter, buzzing like a colony of thirsty bees only several meters away. Just a few degrees to the other side was a whole new view, a book of short stories which paragraphs aren't written in orders, is what. The pages flipped wildly fast as she made her way through the crowds. Her senses recorded everything; the noises, the colors, the movements, the smells, the touches, the tastes, the feelings, a little bit of everything that was eventually enough to form a tornado, herself being the eye of the very calamity, surrounding her — or so she thought, while it was in fact, wrapped tightly, enveloped inside her chest where her heart refused to let go.

A puff of gray smoke coming from her mouth acted as a smooth transition between the scenes, but still couldn't hide the obvious contrary — once out, she was in another universe, quieter, way quieter, far too quiet to her liking. The cool night breeze blew a strain of her hairs, like a puppet master it made them sway in a slow waltz across her face, gently touching the cheeks the way they want to but she let not. A long sip of her cig, and then she walked, what looked like the last leaves summer had left were falling behind her, and the grinding branches were her sole soundtrack, that, before the universe decided to throw a whole orchestra. With thunders came, the rain arrived, she took another long sip before it all ran out, but she walked no faster. The blinding light of a series of the upcoming vehicles from the other side of the street served as fickle spotlights — like everybody else that night, she was in her own show, a cameo in her own story.

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