Apocalypse happens so often.

All that one knows about a person falls apart, displaying a weaker or indifferent or sinister side. It makes people look like fools in their own eyes.

Her pulse is feeble, and probably she is losing her hearing power. A voice seems to come from afar, but emanates from a white shadow on the bedside.

“How are you feeling, Miss Jones?”

“All those sharp lines and angles are blurring. The bright colors on my paintings are fading and I never diluted colors.”

“Can you read the sign in front of you?”

“Yes. The end is near.”

38 thoughts on “Diluted

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