So Cold Vritti Bansal
Along ornate rectangular walls, colonies of low brick houses, rustic Brick Lane and Tooting Broadway; all the way to the glorious West End, she bundles herself up near Marylebone. Her shivering echoes the fluttering brown leaves above. Her words loud yet incomprehensible; her plea would be incomprehensible only to a being void of soul. A hankering resides in her practiced eye, to attract an object out of a bulging Tesco bag, like a magnet would expect of a nearby nail. Grey fingernails peep from beneath a shabby shawl, when they should be brushing grey strands off her face. Even the plain organic walls of the home she fled were more comforting to glare at when a man with a macho purse or a lady with a flowing skirt passed not noticing or plain neglecting.
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