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7. Beauty

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Beauty . . . can it be defined? Perhaps. Sometimes.

Maybe it’s a picture.

Maybe it’s a sentence or a page.

A person, place or thing?

An idea.

I’m at work and my mind’s racing, I’m bored today. My next meeting starts shortly. I was told that someone’s on their way to see me, I look forward to it. My day hasn’t been all that eventful, a change of pace could be fun, perhaps. I’m sitting here ranting and raving, writing for no particular reason. I shouldn’t be writing at work, but I am. I was thinking about what I’d do with my writing once I’m done. Maybe I won’t be done, like Raine. No, everything ends somewhere. Maybe I’ll publish it. I don’t know. I think I’ll give it to Draven to read, let him decide.

My appointment’s on his way, I think that’s him now. He’s coming toward me, head down, a hat covering his face with shadows, all black clothes, long flowing coat. I don’t think I’ve seen him before, it’s alright though, I like meeting new people.

I’ve got work to do. I’ll get back to writing later. Thank you though. I’ll continue when I get home, after I kiss the kids goodbye. I forgot to kiss them this morning as I left the house. How foolish of me. I’ll see them shortly. And Draven too.

 

“cicero

faye coming home

love sorry”

 

The last few lines were scratched onto the sheet in blood. They were what the police found, left on the filled page of Madison’s diary. I went to them and retrieved my love’s book. I’ve carried it with me since that fateful day and it will be found on me once life has finished with me and I am  no longer what I am. Thank you. And please, no flowers, no condolences. No apologies or retribution. Nothing. For all that remains is dust. If love proves real, all that remains is dust. Not blood or tears. Just dust. Forever.

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