Everything is what you made it out to be. Everything is opinionated, everything is your choice. One day you’ll be gone from the face of this earth, and you think what? What did I do? Did I make it? And for all we know, maybe you didn’t, but at least you can say you cared.
The girl was standing at the roadside – limp blonde plaits, filled eyes, pouted lip and soaked stockings. Her gingham was patched and stained by the swirling dust as she knelt by the puddle soaking silently into the sandy path, her tin pail lying balefully nearby – twas the milk maid crying over spilt milk