She's there at all hours of the day. First thing in the morning, in the deep of the night. In her sweats, holding a box of juice in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. There's some kind of elegance in her pose, leaning so casually on the pillar just outside the double layered doors. I imagine her a femme fatale in a past life, smoking at the balcony of a sumptuous party. In a killer black dress, with a glass of champagne and smoking her slim cigarette with gloved hands.
In other news- i've started packing. I begun hoarding boxes yesterday and i found a wonderful stash of sturdy boxes during my jog this morning. My pictures, postcards and posters are coming off the wall. I've started to pack the books in dont need first.
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