The keening sound of the violin. A boy sits as close as he can to the window, because though the room is cold, the glass is warm with sunlight. Shadows move all throughout this place, criss-crossing and chattering inanely;
shadows of lives wasted, thrown away and regretted, lives being spent and lives sitting still, afraid to move forward or waiting forever.
A pair of warm brown eyes, so commonplace here. Light brown hair falls in a sweep as pages turn. Watches tick, reminding us how little we matter; phones vibrate, trying to convince us of the opposite. The colors are artificial, everything is loud.
This is what I see.
The violin is in my head.
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