I wrote this somewhile back. Its a work of fiction, perhaps its estranged. A feeling that you suffer for a minute and then its forgotten. I wrote it in a few minutes, don't know what it meant. Its about three people, a sort of a stream of consciousness beat.

Fragmented Minds

She was extremely beautiful, I wished I could have stayed longer and looked at her. But to have looked more intently in those eyes, that seemed as an opening of a lost galaxy that lay embedded in those beads. I would have given away the secret of this desire. I was drawn away. A strange sound of a violin played in my mind, it was as though snatched from the museums where tired spirits and cobwebs slept and brought by the cavemen. It could have gone longer instead, and I could have taken it from there so sweetly and so beautifully as though a murderous surgeon with a scalpel. But the train whistled in.
Mr Filth, was not an unkind fellow he just seemed to have got used to the sudden and pathetic heartbreaks which seemed to be an ignorable but yet a serious part of his life. It had taken him twenty-long years to understand that human nature was such that his name would arouse disgust on even the most admirable set of people. For twenty years he had mastered the art of listening to the chirping of birds to identify when a death had taken place in the vicinity, and could gauge whether the spirit had been satified or not. Death to him would occur the same reaction as sex wuld be. Could it be that his life was a mystery just like the others he had met at the alley behind the theatre. He didn't wish for it to be so, ever since he had lost his parents in a tragedy that he had decided would have fitted a plot -- no edior could agree. But that was not on his mind; the flask of whisky in his coat pocket was running out, and there seemed only a few hours of time that it would sustain him. An old voyeur he was, the cigarette that seemed to be trapped between his thin lips which was almost reaching to its burning end.
By the the time such thoughts had feld from the fellow that I could easily carve from his tiresome expression, she had already left. It was perhaps too good to be true. I wasn't unhappy but I had suddenly seemed weary with the weight of newspapers under my arm. The amount of reading that had taken place over the past few weeks kept my mind running around madly, looking for lines and words to play and then the lack of sleep. It had got late now, but not that late as late would be in natural circumstances. The fellow on my left seemed impatient waiting for me to say something but I had not, it was difficult what troubles could do to cretins to make them look sour. Songs were now playing, how long could it take? He didn't know.
She thought it about for a minute, and then it escaped her easily. For months she had been on trains and cars to know that the burnt smell of anguish inside her giving way. From scrapbooks to magazine, books to newspaper clippings; could she live in this style of fashion forever. Perhaps not, with the way things had seemed a moment back. She could have thrown her hair back and smiled at those strangers that had taken turns to fancy her. But no, her mission seemed more dire than any of those sods. Carelessly waiting for an impatient and rash moment to dictate their unsophisticated love for her. But then she had slept on nails to know that pain was nothing but a prison that has trapped death. Could they have seen that her wrist was bleeding; and then time seemed to be disappointing as well. Her vision was growing thinner and thinner, her heartbeat strummed peacefully and the blood spoilt the pocket of her expensive but old gown. She was on the train, she felt them running in her mind.