Really?
When Irish came out and locked the door silently, her heart seemed to be pulled out of direction by the faint echo of high heels, which was the clear, lonely sound in a long galactic corridor with incandescent lights. On weekends, everyone wanted to go party, find their once abandoned self, or pay tribute to the youth that had been driven away by time.
It was a lively night outside, but it made her more lonely.
What killed people was not solitariness but loneliness. At the desolate corner with noise on that summer night, though neon lights could be seen everywhere, they were always solitary. Nobody knew them and remembered them.
Reaching for the elevator, Irish looked up and watched the figures bouncing like dazzling reddish stones. Her figure was dragged down in the long corridor like a fragrant and lonely flower, which soon followed her body together into the iron box after the metal door.
