This is a 55 word story I wrote when I was in Dharamsala. Sort of gives a short opine on Tibet.
The charred remains of what once was skin, shines with opulent irony aided by beads of glistening sweat. The leg, now an object of abstract attention, brings to mind many horrific stories.
Told. Retold. Some, untold.
Of a nine year old boy, crawling his way across border.
And they dare to say, Freedom is overrated.
What Real Beauty Means To Me
1 day ago