I saw man, probably in his mid-forties. He wore an expressionless face.
He was walking down silently on the busy street. Wearing a white polo and velvet pants, he didn't seem to mind the world around him.
In his right hand, he held a rusty old-looking trumpet and I was left perplexed, thinking that the aged instrument also had things to tell about who he was that the man himself doesn't know.
YOU ARE READING
Fall
PoetryAlternative title: Autumn Melancholic thoughts, twisted dimensions, and fallen colors Summer, Autumn, Winter, and Spring. This story tells about memories in autumn. As a season changes, there comes another one. The contents of this book are purely p...
