Creative Writing: The Rain Of The Night

'Help, I became obsessed with a devilish mask,' the writer whispered into my ear as he described a woman whose hair went growing during the night. The first rain of the year calls on the vacant road, when the dropping temperature arrived first to drive every soul away. Rainwater drains downwards, and a box of white foam distinguishes itself by the pattering sound.

The ghastly scene gives me the horror which a deep and complicated sight inspires, but it also makes my heart speak. The rolling sound won't leave my thoughts, and the picture will remain still. That ugly box sits there throughout the night, awaiting the man to fall from the roof. If you ever install a window, flies shall be glad to pose on the glass, and be the first, and they

And, the night engenders heavy eyes that make themselves conspicuous, for they love the man lesser than they hope to prime their lids.

The box spreads itself with tiny shards of foam, while the sporadic wind distributes the little balls. If the sewer sends a whif this way, the lad sounds his obnoxious horn, and the aged man blows himself to bits. And, violence inspires awe in the eyes unless the picture repeats itself. When the temperature becomes stable, the bugs rise again in the fighting throes. Those critters survived the freezing cold, and now they wish to break the wall.

One doesn't let himself look outside the house. In deed, beauty can inspire peace in the eyes that aimlessly admire appearance. Nevertheless, their eyeballs bulge with false tranquillity. Hence, conflict breeds, and in reality, the death of time has befallen. He bends the swimming hours in her winding streams while the ordinary mind strays in the buzzing streets. Schools and mistresses, are we not standing over the road that destroys men's precious

Hence, a murderer can hardly vouch for a crime he perpetrates, or turn himself into a furtive token that runs machines, or eligible for a true scene if he announces himself and forbears his cover. Therefore, can you tell the difference between sound and picture, scene and music, melody and rhyme, when the words you hear become what your read?

A variable assassin, nonetheless, is the one you truly need who will place your picture in the street, when every innocent thought drives under the blue sign. Evil assumptions flourish when you lock them in a case, therefore, the killers outstrip the living dead with their precarious thoughts. Furthermore, they carry their awful faces in their bags whence they travel; this journey begins in the mind and thus it terminates when the Rex dies who the ill-meaning killers have warned.

People ask themselves the questions by the numbers; they see the common rhyme when every man answers the way he prefers. And, each woman loves her man dearly unless he sends her straight to the grave, whereas men and women become surprised by the manners which nature plays its tricks. Hence, when our eyes meet, I realise that I am a simple-minded person, and I lift my head and behold the sun and the brooding clouds. Nevertheless, would you answer my question if I confided in you the logic of the coinciding