burntchurro
The stained, yellowing pages of the ragged book sit open as they have for years, along lonely the shore. Its owner abandoned it long ago.
It's that time of year again. Break out the masks, don your veils, plaster on that makeup, and most importantly don't forget the candy.
Adjust. Position. The tiny, black ocular frame gives way to a whole new world.
Sunlight filters through the leaves, dappling the ground with pale patches of gold. A fallen leaf flutters in the breeze, dancing through the air and landing at your feet.
The seconds are ticking by. Time's moving so fast I can barely see where we're going. But I guess that doesn't matter, as long as we go together. The handles on the clock are ticking faster now. I can feel them closing in.
Why does everything have to be in a particular order? Life is supposed to be spontaneous and fun. Too much thinking leads to indecisiveness.
Chaos. It closes in. The noise is overwhelming the sights are overpowering. Everything's happening all at once. I don't know what to do.
People tend to associate mud with filth. But they aren't the same thing. Mud is what you play with when you're a little kid in the backyard. It isn't the best toy in the world but leaves so much to the imagination.
So you're just going to give up and let them use you as a pawn for their scheme? I thought you were different. Weren't you the one who taught me how to play chess? What happened to the old you? The real you. The one that was in control?
Soft and furry is what describes it. Don't pet it too roughly or it'll break.
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