monarchmajesty

She is a free thinker, a beat lover who moves to the cool rhythm running like a babbling brook in her own head. Walking down the grey shadow of a cold concrete city sidewalk, in a valley between two peaked sky scrapers, she’s a black wisp of a shadow; fair skin, white hair—a poet by her own right. Her fingertips spread to catch the cool stagnant city air, as they tingle, itch, burn, wishing for a better way out than by just walking. Tiptoeing into an old 1920’s club turned chic boutique, she can feel the “great ones’” shadows turning to stare and analyze her screamingly purposeful authenticity. She passes the