A ponytail, is that she? The way she runs just beyond a beaten track, on a concrete one. The scent poured into my soul while I try to sanction the witch, a measured curse, is it the winds who needs to be blamed, Gods’ will, the shape of it? O… the smell… No, a fool’s choice.
Oct-11-2017 | 13:58 | Photo by Trung Thanh
