

angelinaAngelina, in the window, was watched from afar, envied by a dark corner ofangelina
New York that dripped with old photographs and music sheets, named Vincent. Her curtains were never up, so the shadow parade lit only by candles could never end and therefore never reveal to him anything more than silhouettes and distant noises.
Though she never appeared perfectly clear, his hands, accustomed to the curve of a violin,
struck every note of her body against the glass. The act, a transparency, occupied the area between their nearly colliding apartment buildings.
- Kelsey
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