Anna gargles up a reluctant tune every thursday. But always too soon the others recieve it. Maybe a stave of ''ok''?? is her vice. Her single crave.
Yet to Anna her one vocal routine is not to annoy. Letters of extreme sufferig always prevail with surprise to her. Then single forced laughs hide her eyes.
Nevertheless, what if you were the ones deafened by regular racket. The suns diluted to rock. You would tooclasp your ears to peace. Spill a silence on the chore.
Anna too spilled silence about one day. It poured out frm her wrists and down her grey fading skin. No one heard this final song or warning ballad. Thursday's notes are gone.