Ripped

What does it matter, they are just words on a page.

What can words on a page possibly do?

Some kind of emotional nurturing? Introspection? Or just silent whining?

Get yourself out there and do some works, you useless girl.

As if it doesn’t cost a penny feeding you.

Well, the page was ripped, the scolding stopped, and she walked out there, the balcony.

Looking down.

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The street brimmed with life, chattering of sellers and buyers under colourful canvas, clattering of coins on sweaty palms, thudding of pork chunks on blood-stained chopping boards, clamouring of hens in dung-littered cages.

A market at high noon.

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Nice place to die.

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She jumped.

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What does it matter?

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