The clock strucks three And I silently walk up to my mother ; I tell her that I wish to write a book, a tragedy where I would name the protagonist Anna. And Anna won't grow her hair long for a prince to fall in love. My heroine would kill a king , pin his head on to a wall, weave a tiara out of his blood soaked hair and sip wine in strange cities. I tell her that my mind isn't a quiet place, that I still scribble poetries at midnight and more than his paintings, Van Gogh's death inspires me. I bend a little closer and reach her ears to whisper that her love keeps barking at me , asking me to not fall in love. And that noise doesn't let me sleep. I am awake since ages.
The alarm clock rings and I wake up ; Six in the morning And I find her awake : My mother!