Paul Mccartney 🪲 #89

1958

You had just become a nun, attending church every day. Everything was happening naturally, but there was a problem—a problem with a first and last name: Paul McCartney. The man who was always beside the pastor and the bishop, always dressed in black; you felt that something wasn't right about him. He avoided the sun, went out with an umbrella even during the day, and as if that weren't enough, he had fangs.

Until one day, you were walking through the silent hallways, hearing only the hooting of owls. The moonlight illuminated your face, while your long black dress moved to your rhythm.