She comes as the rain, in a township of clouds.
The heaven tumbled upwards, waiting for a new ruler.
The brown earth could never make love to the green.
He was waiting for her to rain down.
Kritika looked at the random lines she'd just written. Lot of clouds, rain, heaven, she thought. Well what can you expect when you've been flying non-stop for over 72 hours, she lamented back. She sighed, looked around the almost empty flight. There was nothing much to notice on this afternoon flight. To her right sat a girl with long hair, and longer nails, presumably first time on her flight: she asked a woman sitting in front where the lavatory was.
In front of her, there was a woman with a child, a girl of about seven, paying devious attention to Kritika: she asked her about her lipstick, her finger ring, rows with blue trapeze diamonds, and her mystery-shade-of-blue shoe. To her back, sat yet another woman with a child, a boy of about ten, voicing the effect of the altitude on his stomach every time the plane gained or lost a few feet.
Kritika sighed. The window seat bored her; it was bright and sunny outside and most of all, her migraine was nagging her about her writer's blog. She soon spotted the problem: the businesswoman in her was handling her artist's targets. She sighed again. There was nothing she could do about it.
The heaven tumbled upwards, waiting for a new ruler.
The brown earth could never make love to the green.
He was waiting for her to rain down.
Kritika looked at the random lines she'd just written. Lot of clouds, rain, heaven, she thought. Well what can you expect when you've been flying non-stop for over 72 hours, she lamented back. She sighed, looked around the almost empty flight. There was nothing much to notice on this afternoon flight. To her right sat a girl with long hair, and longer nails, presumably first time on her flight: she asked a woman sitting in front where the lavatory was.
In front of her, there was a woman with a child, a girl of about seven, paying devious attention to Kritika: she asked her about her lipstick, her finger ring, rows with blue trapeze diamonds, and her mystery-shade-of-blue shoe. To her back, sat yet another woman with a child, a boy of about ten, voicing the effect of the altitude on his stomach every time the plane gained or lost a few feet.
Kritika sighed. The window seat bored her; it was bright and sunny outside and most of all, her migraine was nagging her about her writer's blog. She soon spotted the problem: the businesswoman in her was handling her artist's targets. She sighed again. There was nothing she could do about it.
Coming up...
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