Stick Man and No She

And she sauntered forward with a neurotic head, she scratch her top and wonder if stick man will ever be there. Day by day it was just fine, hearing her clock ticks every second, looking at those beautiful and unpleasant faces of people walking by, and there was no any trace of stick man, no foot paths on her route or the protracted scent of his tobacco.

She calls him something, which I can not tell you.

And she sauntered forward with an unwind head, he lit it once or maybe more. He seized some shots in awe and marvel at seven if she will ever be there. Day by day, night by night it was just so fine. He rushes in the tick sound, and he treads heavily, and his pencil stomp the paper, and he look at these people, passing the time to discern her. There was no any trace of her, no foot paths on where he stood, no introverted eyes that enthusiastically wanted to stare. No strong force that sends his blood veins mingling in his heart. No she.

Stick man blink his eyes as she passes by.

And stick man calls her love which she never knew. And she calls him something which will never be known.