"I've red a poem, today, just like as usual."
"It's poesy ... could be an antique vase."
"It's a poem indeed."
"But somehow, I felt the sentiments, exactly."
The girl had thought to herself, with her eyes closed.
Several minutes had passed by.
Silence still.
Everything was set in a standby.
Her eyes, still closed.
It seemed she's at a thought.
Of something, of something.
Windows were open, and the sun was at that point where it reached its peak, the wind blew evening gale.
It filled the little space coolness.
The space, so little, as little as the girl's size.
Every little thing of importance was confined at the very space.
Things were rummaged all over the floor.
But an easel at the corner stood out from the rest.
There, a blank canvas -- nothing could be seen.
The girl opened her eyes.
Holding the palette and brush on both of her hands for almost a long time, she had started.
She had started to make out an object from those colors and brush, from those hands of her.
Curtains fluttered over with a swish.
Swish as the wind does.
Time draws to evening.
"Ah, dark."
She stood up when the thought of "it was already dark" crossed her mind.
Windows were shut close with a gentle slide from the girl's hand.
But the wind continued its gale outside.
Swoosh as it blew.
The girl turned around.
"It was cold by now, right?"
She asked to herself.
"I didn't know."
Bulb's light filled the room as she reached near the door and pressed the switch.
It was very bright.
Bright enough for her to see again.
With no other thoughts, she returned to her work immediately.
She halted to a sit.
Sitting erect, gaze affixed onto the canvas full of lines and colors.
The palette and brush, lying on the floor, she held it to her hands.
Fingers in motion with the brush.
Her hands, steady and compose throughout, flushed softly every strokes in command.
Strokes of straight, thick color.
Brown as flesh's, with varying tones.
And then there were curves, of facial, of bodily features.
So it was a human.
It was no sketch.
Wind swooshed, and trees grew noisy.
There, at outside, in cool evening.
"So cold."
Windows were shut, yet the girl still felt the wild gale blowing outside.
She whispered "so cold, so cold" to herself many, many times.
Her fingers gone numb.
That and coldness, she paused on what she was doing.
"This would be just fine ... this would be ..."
"..."
"But, this is no good, right?"
"I guess I should stop for now."
Trees continued to produce a rustling sound.
They rustle, rustle and rustle ...
Cool winds blew, and swayed, as so did the trees.
In every movement---
