trickle, trickle.
rain falls from the buildings, trees and clouds, as the sky cries of exhaustion of shining brightly to those who don't seem to care. the white, fluffy clouds were suddenly dark and gray. the houses dampened in color, but they seemed to shine brightly nonetheless.
as umbrellas opened, the sound of the fabric rubbing against the metallic handle, the rain droplets hugged onto the umbrella like they haven't had anything, anyone to hold. chatters aligned with the weather, suddenly turning quiet but showing a lot of upset emotion. the dresses of women flowed under the protective shield of the umbrella, and men's sides of their dress-pants occasionally getting wet.
from the windows of the houses, there was the small sound of writing, ink dipping, and humming. the feather never lifted from the girl's pale, slim hands. it continously wrote, as if there was no end.
the pages turned, the paper rattling as the ink dried. the girl kept humming, lost in her thoughts.
day to night, the ink still moved, but it was still at the same time.
trickle, dip, write, trickle.
dip, write, trickle, trickle.
the sky kept seeming to cry, as if there was no real end to the...