That angelic voice is calling me again. She’s whispering the beauty of being unidentified clearly and doesn’t let me in to interrupt.
Steadiness is there, protecting her with the softest blanket that ever created. She is warm. She is happy. And she is the world.
She talks like heaven. She talks like there is no tomorrow.
Here I am, then, stalking. Yes, stalking at you. (pelukislangit)
September 10, 2008
Al Izhar Pondok Labu
17.16
When I’m stalking at her.
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