where the peach trees scream

If you look through all the articles of clothing scattered over the boards of what once was a clear floor, you will end up here. Entering the door with a sign that reads “enter with caution”. Where the elongated path stretches to an isolated, lonely town. It is always morning once you arrive here, though the yellow ball of elastic bands is disguised in the smokey, ash tray of a sky. Walking in the midst of the frail, dying trees, the hairs on my arms stand up. There was nothing to see. Nothing but an elephant in the sky and the rosebud leaves. Each step taken in the path of cotton ball snow disintegrates, no one ever knows the imprint of your shoe, your existence that travelled through the reserved, deflating town. The sweeping hush of fear travels fast within the crate of impossibility, of fantasy. When walking to the door of the wooden, house where no one lives a growl from the bark escapes. In this dull flavoured spring, the peach trees are blooming beneath in the dark room. As I push the rusted door open. I am back. Into my room where time remains the same, the piles of clothing still scattered. df886323fa67f5b194b12eba78a53907

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