inhotpursuit
Melpomene reclined before him, the very picture of divinity. With the flick of her wrist, the man was bent over his scrolls, scribbling as if his life depended on it. And perhaps it did. She knew his work. It was too verbose, words prancing across the page, pompous and flat. He never wrote enough blood to suite her tastes. So she tugged him this way and that, suspended like a puppet and dancing for his mistress. She pulled harder and harder, watching him crumble beneath her ministrations and she smiled. This is where her words would come from.
You forgot one of your old manuscripts here when you left. I've read through it so many times, but I won't mention it the next time I see you. It's not something you need. It's old and it belongs here with me, not wherever you've seen fit to go. The dust is resettling now and everything looks calm.
So I looked out my window one day, but it was different. The grass was gone and the tire swing was falling into disrepair. The yard was overrun with weeds. It hadn't seemed so long upon waking, but now I am left wondering what I've missed while I slept.
Its thick and dark and it smudges when you wipe at your eyes, so tired. What are you trying to say? It just makes you look worn out and hollow. What do you want?