Contorted in Laughter

The wind blows wearily through the quiet street

as it does every night.

It brushes by the impassive apartment buildings

and tickles the ripened leaves.



The wind catches its breath to see who breaks the silence.

A stranger, in a strange land,

on a street whose name she can't pronounce.

Her face is contorted in laughter,

an insane laughter. The laughter of night.

The wind hurries on,

eager to escape the sudden flurries of discomfort.

So she stands alone,

welcoming yet another night, another chance to dream.

And perhaps from this one she will not wake up.

The End

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