Scorned ---

With each passing day, not much changes. At three in the morning she sits alone in the dead silence of the desolate room. She tightly clutches her cup of steaming tea, the only fuel keeping her going at this hour. A browning apple sits abandoned at one end of the table, long forgotten as all else but him has been. She scribbles furiously in her old leather journal, cursing him until the end of time. Time, after all, is the only thing she has.

Notes of black tea, red apple, leather, and aged paper.

Une fois sur la peau on ne sent plus que la pomme un peu acide, style pomme granny. C'est pas mal, mais il ne tient pas du tout...