Golden

Tap. Tap. Tap.
Nothing.
Nothing but silence in the room as the typewriter places its tiny symbols on the freshly cut elm paper. The smell of old books resonated ever so softly throughout the entire house. Perhaps Sylvia was not home. But how then could I feel petit foot steps vibrate the floorboards? It was becoming late as the Golden Sun was being replaced by Cynthia's incandescent glow. At least the migraine had past, but still only three letters indented the page.
MUR
So many places to consider, so many characters, so many thoughts. Perhaps the MURmur of a young child as they are lost in a forest. A soft 'mum' parts from their tiny lips as the skin partakes in its first drop of saliva in an hour. Blocked. My mind is blocked. Perhaps aesthetics and immorality should be my main concern. I could not break from this rut. I needed Sylvia. Her soft skin, pale as ever, her blue eyes and long, dead-straight black hair. Her 1970's summer dresses and perfect lips, a sweet pink. I could kiss them for hours. I still remember our first encounter. The day was rainy and the streets of New York were deserted. She playfully skipped in the rain with her yellow, wooden, straight Umbrella. I was sitting outside Le Ciel, a jazz bar, and a seductive piano wafted through the door. The songs name I am unsure, but its sweet melody placed my eyelids together and upon opening, I saw her.