This is night life, she speaks. To no one but herself and her virtual pen.
Over cups of milk tea, she drinks drop by drop.
The cool wind that blankets her skin, the sensible pages and the momentary silence in between. There is an odd, yet pleasant chemistry along her Clementine, his ragged old guitar and those papers that ‘sing’.
She sips again. And again. And yearns for the mysteries of the hours between the nightfall and the dawn.
She captures a thought.
The flavor is called nostalgia. It tastes like a tension between joy and tears.