Fault

Again, the same old lady is smoking in the dark alley. She always wears a box of jewelleries: huge purl of earrings, thick rings on the ring finger, and a chain of purls around her skinny neck, which seem too heavy for her winkled skin. Those jewels are not sparkle enough to light up her dark skinned face. A big straw hat covers a half of her thin grey hair. Her lips with a light pink lipstick on, is a chimney that pollutes surrounding beauties. The wheelchair makes a sound when she moves the wheels. It is like a moment that a broken clock’s hand shifts when the woman tries to go forward. How many pedestrians are aware of her? She looks weaker and weaker every time she appears on this alley, and she will be at five metres ahead than the last time. Her emotion tries to vanish with the smoke.