Art. The most intense form of individualism ever known.
Pure art filled his hungry eyes. Windows – paintings mirroring shreads of a huge reality, each another reason to run away from his own life and recreate it from scrap. Balconies – masks hiding millions of known faces, seductively passing him by in the night, leaving him only a whisper reminding him of her. All beautiful, but none real and shiny like the light in her eyes.
Masks. He looked up again at the building while lighting himself another cigarette, then continued his journey towards the day when he will meet her again.
memyselfandela, 2013, Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Copyright –Kent Bonham