Titled "Crimson". A story representing the Individual and Society of the 19th century.

If only these walls could talk, then I shall have a friend. If only I could close my eyes, and not see my whole life flashing behind that black façade, then I would dare to sleep. The seconds, minutes, hours... Holds no meaning now. For I am nothing but a misplaced soul wandering across a white plain, where there is no start. And no end. A little girl skipped across a …

…For the first time in many nights, I closed my eyes and dreamed. A little girl wearing her lovely white dress skipped across a long pathway. She suddenly turned around and wandered back to the rose bush. She leaned forward and reached her arms out, pulling a red rose. She then screamed out in pain and quickly removed her hand. Small crimson droplets leaked from her finger and the rose fell silently onto the ground.