January 2, 2013

This is a story of a gaunt maiden so pallid and fragile that she couldn't go out.
The only way to connect herself with our world was a tiny oval window that overlooked upon a little wood.
This poor lady often sat in front of this glimmer of life and she described 
what she saw through this window on a small shred of paper .
But day by day her sorrow grew so that she was not be able to define the beauty of that sight anymore.
Her words became even more harsh, little pieces of her heart turned in ink and all her affliction and sadness won the day.

Everything which her body expressed was nothing more than the mirror of her grief.

And so her agony started, on a cold winter morning.

Wide wounds made their own way on her little fleeble pinched body; soon black and blue marks swallowed her face.
Tiny cuts appeared under her little hands.
Her wrinkled lips turned in a sick blue.
Her blood stopped flowing through the green veins of her narrow wrists.
Her gaze, gloomy and vitreous, kept on staring that wood full of vitality.
That flowered-dressed creature had the death on her heart.

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