She sat relaxed, legs crossed, staring out the window of Silver Lake Blvd. She let her world blur and mused at her thoughts. Her fingers curled around her hair and pulled them through the crevices of her hand. The gentle tug of her hair felt cool and her tea sat on the table, vanishing in a wisp.
Thoughts poured in and she scribbled the words that shot by. She held her page down, wrestling it away from her pen. A give and take. She was a veteran writer. The pen, her weapon, and the paper, her war zone. The most intimate battles that defined her spilled out in black ink. There was danger of exposing herself on paper. The vulnerability thrilled her and edged her to keep the pen down. Continue murder..
The paper screamed for mercy but the pen was relentless until every tick was marked.
She paused and took a sip from her tea. A cyclist whirled by. Jazz hung in the air and saxophone rhythm filled her void. The flame from the candle gleamed and danced. She exuberated grace and there she sat relaxed, legs crossed, staring out the window of Silver Lake Blvd.
SS
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