Scribbles



Some days are like that. I  bury myself in myself. Regrets from the first love glimmers through the memory sky. The moral armor seems too heavy to carry. Love for the silent thing is hard to share.

Random line in the book reminds us that we are nothing but ashes and dust. Yet pride wraps us in a cloak.

Comments

Priti Tiwari said…
ver nice capture:)