morbid curiosity

photo.  

Raindrops are drumming against your window. You can feel their icy whispers gathering around you. The room is dark except for the glass which reveals the greying street, and the cold glow of the laptop's screen which illuminates the dim forms of a bed, chair and closet behind you. There is the thick taste of a hard-boiled lolly in your mouth. Behind the rain you can hear the vague outlines of Sad by Pearl Jam humming in the background.
All this, with the mixed, broken scents of hair and rain and cotton sheets and lavender, holds you for a moment. And you pause in your typing, your fingers hesitating on the keys before you continue typing, in a more assured manner then before. This is who you are, now, in this moment you feel more yourself than you often do. And it's like a breath of fresh air. But even as you type you wonder whether you will post it.
And a small, dissatisfied part of you thinks about why people read the erratic, endless writings of others shadowed by the anonymity of cyberspace. And you can't help but feel it's for the same reason that humans stretch their necks to get glimpses of car crashes.

But maybe you shouldn't think about that right now. Maybe you should just finish your sentence.