Musings. Ex Libris

She is always deemed a mute girl. Her uneventful reticence raises eyebrows. It is actually she who raises eyebrows first when being interrogated of her quietude, and living up to her label she offers no reply. That quietude was more of a latent idiosyncrasy than a natural inclination, for she used to ramble like any of you. The picture is still vivid in retrospect of how she rambled: angels with velvet wings lilting puckishly on streams of innocent words. Presumably too innocent those words that they immediately provoked the Authoritative. An offhand decision was made from the Authoritative, and the grave quietude descended. Supposedly the aforementioned is too embellished a paragraph. She promises to whittle down any surplus of her story for sake of concision. Concision denotes dead silence. The night is shrouded in velveteen silence as she ponders about. Plans roll out of gestation and into the embryonic stage of action as she ponders. A spectre she is made by those malicious flesh w

All attention now turn to a shrouded figure on the flee. An escapee he is not, nor is he a bustling commuter. Night is impossible to bear such muted tone. All the hurly-burly seems to be swept away without mercy. A swirling smoke of dusts he incites in the wake of his hobbling pace. Beware! Night murmurs to itself as the smoke uncontrollably swerves up. Disquiet lurks threateningly in, the murky smoke slowly gnaws. No music and not a sound are heard. Imagination sets flames on them. Alive, the music yawns itself alive from below. Like the residue of a closed bakery, smouldering melodies emit from below his mud-scattered boots, from below the pulsated earth; the flagrance of music wafts. A mirage he illusions of seeing: little girl dancing under a ring of light in pleated-skirt. Her movement coheres with the arpeggio taps. All perked-up dynamics ironed somewhat at the end of every four bars, in which a slight squeak of the girl’s ballet shoes is audible. Under the conspicuous spotlight