Would you like to make this site your homepage? It's fast and easy...
Yes, Please make this my home page!
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She sits in a rocking chair at midnight, eating peaches in the heat. As she finishes licking her lips clean of the juice she takes up her mug of cold chocolate milk laced with orange peel. She's a little lost, unable to sleep, but rocks back and forwards and reads a bit of her book. Each night she'll sit there, unable to sleep, till 2 am comes, and she rises and turns fitfully against the sheets.
He wanders around the stationary shop, turning things over in his hands, he wouldn't mind the sketchbook of black pages and some fine sharp long pencils to draw with, the lines barely visible on the black except when tilted just so. Their bare presence gives him a little more confidence but soon it is put aside again as he curses that he cannot draw.
She watches entranced at a play, of a girl in a cage surrounded by a chorus of voices, pretty little thing, so good, so quiet, pretty little thing, don't make a noise, we like you much better when your quiet, be good don't be bad. But dark thoughts lurk in the girls mind and she sees it in herself too as she watches, bloodthirsty thoughts from the precious young daughter who is so good, so pretty, always does the right thing, smiles sweetly when she's ripped up inside needing to be free.
He scowls and kicks the keyboard away, the keys he has barely touched all day, as he stares at a glaring white screen without the black letters upon it, that he wishes were there. He goes out to the garden and waters the plants, the plants whose leaves are burnt black and brown from the heat, burnt only by the sun's heat, they did not even have the time to wilt and droop. Pouring water on them each day, they do not recover, what once is dead shall remain dead, until life creeps over to hide it, but it still remains dead.
And my thoughts are muggy, I struggle beneath them, my mind pushed into a swamp unable to get out.
