..

Outside. dusk.
Wanderer sits..twirling a dried rose in her hand, dwelling.
Blind looks at her, picks up a crackled rose from the pile accumulated near the girl then asks,
"why do you like these things so much?"
Wanderers response: "I don't know..I think they're beautiful..."

"but they're dead.."

"I know..thats...part of the fascination,
they're beautiful in their lack of life..."

"huh.."