Dance Partner
I put the demolition notice of our house on my drawer and slumped in front of my writing desk, which I don't use any longer. Instead of paper, various kinds of pens, and any form of thing that could help me write, my writing desk now consisted of dozens bottles of pills for my medication that supposedly should be able to help me, a pitcher of water, my Braille typrewriter, and paper.
I don't write anymore. Partly because I can't do that any longer, but mostly because I think I lost something within me that got tired of writing.
"Ugh!" I groaned silently. I did silently because I knew if I make as much as a dissatisfied grunt, people would come pouring inside my room, worried that something happened to me. I know that they were just concern, but their worry was suffocating
