rgooding20
Something in my heart. A flicker. My finger tip pricked with the heat coming from within. I always felt this way before it happened. Exhilaration. Preparation. Power.
Streaks down windows, dappled and wet. Nothing really could seem real, but too real. Trying something new. Living.
Cages. Not real ones. Ones made of trees and buildings. Of grass and concrete. No escape. No escape. Chasing, cornering, hunting, running, hiding. I tried. I did. They keep coming. Fear, paranoia, destiny. I'm trapped.
He slammed the hatch and walked around to the driver side door. When he climbed in, I looked over at him and smiled. We were doing it. Finally. After all these years, all this work, we were leaving. Nothing could stop us now.
It was broken. Incomplete. Nothing could ever repair the damage he'd seen. His heart was annihilated, and no one would ever know how badly.
Her tears rolled softly down her round cheek. Alone.
The show was terrible and we knew it. But every week we trudged through writing and meeting and acting and shooting. And every week we got paid to do it. Paid by the viewers. The millions and millions of inane, idiotic, ridiculously simple viewers
They all stood before the crowd - a single line on display in a ceremonial fashion that awed and amazed.