When one yearns to look out of the window to see pretty flowers and hear blue birds chirping, the scenery in front of the girl is only a grey sky, black clouds over which numerous crows fight till their death. The people working at the field do not care about her misery whatsoever. I call it my lonely window.

When she closes her lids, the blooded memories rushes through her nerves, veins, arteries, and a force surges to her head. Like a plastic doll, ever lifeless, with her companions of stuffed toys, she falls into a death slumber.