excerpt from a story I will never write - Jihan Mour.
Bones crunch under their feet like fallen autumn leaves. The wind is calm, brushing against skin with light caresses, barely there. Their hair stands on end at the feeling; it was as if someone had touched them. They turn around to find... nothing. Nothing but the smog left behind from thousands of generations who had no care for the Earth and its beauty. Not even a shadow was there, just the reminder of the desolate wasteland they had come to call their home.
Tren på dette sitatet
Rediger tekst
eller bare legg igjen en kommentar:
