She came to the hospital a broken-spirited girl; the tumor in her brain near its expiry date. She spoke to no one, not even the doctors that tried to help her. Everyone said she had given up. But not me. I was the first one she spoke to, they say. Strange though, that the first person she'd spoken to was a hospital janitor who worked in Intensive Care Unit, well past his retirement age. I remember the night clearly. I was mopping the floor of her room late in the night when I heard her shift in bed. The poor thing; she was the most beautiful helpless girl I had ever seen. She was looking at me mop the floor. Her eyes, they haunt me as at now. In them was desolation. But that desolation seemed to be countered by the vestiges of cheerfulness and energy. She had been a very happy person before all this, it looked like. I grunted in her direction, as a way of apologizing for waking her up. Dragging the mop trolley, I attempted making my exit. I didn't want to be in...

Peals of laughter High-pitched squeals All-day long it's banter, Play appointments and candy deals. Sounds of freedom Sounds of childhood. Ring tones and message beeps Thumping speakers and camera flashes "Childish" nature is no longer for keeps So true identity lies in ashes Sounds of apparent sophistication Sounds of adolescence. Hawkers and hooters The rush and the traffic jams And mundanity breeds aggravators Desiring escape from their world's noisy hum Sounds of jadedness Sounds of adulthood