You know how your hair sweeps to your side when you look down in shame? You are staring at the floor mindlessly thinking about how you're hurting when a black strip of hair appears on the top right of your vision and blissfully distracts you from your catastrophic thoughts.

   It's tranquil all of a sudden. All sound is ceased and all vision is blurred except from that black strand of hair. You cannot help but think about pushing it back as it not only heavily distracts you, but it also fears weird touching your face so gently and harshly at the same time. Just like he used to.

   So you raise your hand to push it back but you regret it, so instead you just cover your whole face wih your hands and hope that you momentarily vanish into thin air, with no trace at all left for everyone to mock or pretend to care about.

   You feel ashamed. You want to cry. You forgot what you did. In all honesty, your mind is just a fading ball of hazy light ready to become extinguished by your deafening agonies. It will never go away, you think to yourself.

   You can feel the strand of hair comforting your hands, their wet palms hidden beneath the darkness of your obscure expression. It is indeed comforting and just warm enough so as to forget how much you're freezing, your skin bare and your skeletons exposed to everyone and everything before you.

   You do not want to hear another question. It will only feel as though you're being interrogated and lying is a such hard task to accomplish when faced with your foolishly arcane difficulties. It is not a mundane thing to anyone, you feel differentiated.

   People will caress you. They will hug you and try to kiss you, but it is not as effective as your black strand of hair. It is not the same. Skin to skeleton does not run parallel to skeleton to hair. Warmth is indefinitely a lesser needed quality when coming face to face with a hazardous blizzard.

   Then you remain alone, though gratefully not lonely. You take your hands off your face and a fresh breeze of air sweeps past your undry face, so excrutiatingly invigorating. Is wading through an underwater storm the way to reaching the earthly paradise?

   No. Who are you? What is the paradise you're talking about? Is it the one everyone walks on? Or perhaps, does it not exist?

   Perhaps, what if people float on the underwater storm and you're just stuck on the ocean bed?