Shrouded is the mind beset by foliages. Years have gone by and my tired eyes can only watch haplessly the leaves dry up and wither the life and color of a fine morning. I remember nothing now just as the wind does. It does not recall anything of its forecasted plans and destination. Science has defined what causes the wind go a certain direction but it can never predict it accurately. Moody.
Should I stop caring too? I don’t know.
Captured in a photo is my countenance emaciated, marred by countless unidentifiable fingerprints.
Photo shoots can only confine youth but not time. I wish it can do more.
God, I hope it does more than that.