Like a rolling stone...

He sat down in the cafe with a cup of something steamy and a worn out copy of Metamorphosis by Kafka.
It's been on her list of books to read for a couple of years now. Thanks for the reminder, she thought.

He was just an ordinary boy. And then he wasn't. The difference? An old acoustic guitar, a dusty harmonica, and a soul full of lyrics to change the world.

He led her through places she'd never been, like dance steps she did not know. And she followed. And she followed well.

He had convictions, and would not let them go. He had opinions, and would fight her on them. And they would fight until the madness overcame their stubbornness and turned into the greatest love of all time. And they knew that it didn't make any sense, that they didn't make any sense. No one believed it could last.

But they didn't care. And they didn't quit.

image via deviantart

Note: This is not a personal narrative. But I wouldn't call it a work of fiction, either. Let's just say it's some stranger's narrative. I'm just the ghost-writer in another's love story. But I wanna know how that feels.