Lackadaisical and waltzing by the Volkhov, Sara tries to get rid of the dense clouds that have been following her for way too long. Playing with those butterflies that flutter about oh so graciously a minute, waving her imaginary wand and trying to shoo the clogs cast in the sky another. Moving to playing a game of hopskotch with herself, finding a shed feather of her pet peacock, Ronita, and running it on her balmy face, visiting the local grocer every morning just so she can dig her hands into a pile of cool and colorful vegetables. All of four, it's not really fresh air that she wishes to suspire as much as hope that the grass turns greener with each breath taken.
What is she doing, really, in a world that forgets what it is to listen to the murmur of hearts?
