Reality’s wispy figments hung beyond her grasp. Days begun at four in the afternoon kept her translucent skin safe from the sun’s ravaging rays. Neon demons, crowded clubs, and illicit pharmaceuticals eased her into sensational poses. The paparazzi clamored for more.
Fellini scenes, gray-scale backdrops to life, encouraged Sylvia, sweet Sylvia’s whispers. Begging for peace, she scoured each avenue for escape from her manic world. Exhausted, detached, bordering on sociopathic but yearning for connection, she ended each dawn at the fountain in search of the answer. Hidden from the world for so long, she had forgotten where her soul drowned.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer