Reality exceeds fiction.
If it's a script, it can be corrected. Then, I just have to act according to what's written.
However, reality, lacking any scenario, always brings the worst.
The golden rays stretched outward into the rich blue, blooming over the horizon. Pouring the initially white fabric to be the soft shade of marmalade, the sunrise was the warmest hue. My fingertips brushed against the slowly swaying curtains, moving them aside to peek at the world as the summertime's wind blew.
I was a silhouette, the long and dark lines engaged with my feet. Lights penetrated through my shirt, casting a thin shadow across its surface.
I was a silhouette, with different shapes on both sides. It was not imperfection. It was proof that I was alive.
Six months… How many seasons did we skip?
