hippoberry
The narrative of a bird is the most interesting. Either if it's light and dainty, or shrill and loud. It is always unique. It is always wondrous. It is always exciting. Much more than a narrative of a radio host.
She stared down at the item in her hands. She had the choice. The choice of freedom or death.
Her decision would change her, and the man standing in front of her.
She had to choose. She had to overcome her indecision. She had to be strong.
So she stabbed him.
She based everything on facts. Never imaginative. Always factual.
She hated opinions, she thought they were worthless.
She only used the facts. The facts of life. The facts of death.
But not the facts of creativity.
His feature captivated her. His tall stance, his broad shoulders, his dark hair and steep jawline. She picked up her paint brush, and it was like a dance.
The springtime is a beautiful time. Flowers blooming, mothers caring, bees buzzing, wind blowing. It's peaceful. It's loving. It's full of excitement and explorations.
Art has pixels. And then the pixels have pixels. And those pixels have pixels. And so on. They are all made up of each other. It's sort of beautiful in a way. They support each other. They build each other. They would be nothing without each other.
His wrath is like fire. A small spark which turns into a burning, savage flame and destroys everything in its path. His wrath is like lightning. Which strikes a tree and sends it falling into the void, flaming and crumbling to nothingness.