motifmelody
The moment before the pen hits her page running is filled only with breath and slight trembles. This, she hopes, is what inspiration feels like. There's no need for introspection or the little cycles of anxiety, only a calm, completely-out-of-control ---------.
Beneath; under the - -s, she's with him breathing: in tandem? It's hard to tell between the shift of sheets and the taste of morning breath. It's about time to wake up, but they're still -------, hidden together from the world.
You hear it in the tinny ring of muted trumpets, in a dark corner of a darker bar, as her voice rings out over the rumble of distant conversation. Here, you are home. She's got a microphone, everything smells like beer, but for tonight it doesn't matter, because in the timbre of her voice lies your ---------.
They say there are many ways to generate conflict in a work. Man vs. nature, man vs. man, man vs. time... How about the inner self? Man vs. self, they say. -Human- versus self. There's a wall constructed somewhere within, or perhaps many walls, and the only thing for sure is that you're forever in contention, trapped on the opposite _____.
There's a hunger inside of her, and when he buys her ice cream, it's not enough. She sits and rubs her belly and whispers something -- something, because what remains is the other ____. He focusses on success and keeping that glass floor nice and steady, polished clean enough to walk through, almost, and she focusses on wishing and waiting for what he doesn't know he needs to give her, inside.
Oh no. I'm sorry if I smothered you. They told me the other day that people have these things -- sometimes people wish for them, too -- and they told me that I didn't really understand, and that I was suffocating you. I wish they'd told me sooner. I wish you were the one. But we're wrong, don't you see? What I want isn't that, it's just to be here, locked in your heart, between two lungs.
to sleep, mostly; she waits in a dark place and whispers "it's cold" to the pile of junk doubling as a companion. She waits because she knows that one day she'll come home again and everything's going to be alright -- until then she -- to sleep, mostly; she is only a watcher of the town, flow of time, people in winter suits.
They dangle from her wrist, thin, stork-like; a liquid grace about them. They jingle when she speaks. She speaks and they jingle. It is an extension of her, something catching your eye and keeping you fixated, her charisma is more than enough. You sleep and the sound of her voice mixes with the charms, jingles through your mind in endless mantras. You never need to awaken.
Did you remember that moment, enthralled, a segment of time which was undefined and limitless? Did you remember when it was only framed by the white lines, something or another which captured your last ounce of happiness, an image imprinted, engraved in your mind? Did you wonder, maybe, who was behind the lens?
In the rye.
I never read that book, you know? Somebody small, somebody pitiful, somebody hateful. I missed out on that, but I guess I've still got my chance. Reminds me of his greatest regret. He was so dejected over that missed ball, the fly right over second base. Reminds me how he died, unfulfilled, that that was his dream. Remember when that mattered?
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