A kind of primal instinct when she strategically places herself in the seat closest to the emergency exit.
Staring at the faded lights in the darkness, the longer she stares, the more they seem to mesh.
A canvas of all black, through her eyes, splash of color travels through the seams at the condescending speed of light.
A bite of the bottom lip, boy this book is interesting, a shiny lighter makes its personality known.
A beat, a rythm, and a ciggarette is lit.
Menthol according to her high prefference.
Paintbrush in hand, her soul seeps through the paint much like blood through a vein.
The image of a door, light screaming through the crack, is this the place to be or is it just fantasy?
The clock moves its branches, swaying its hours to ambition.
Minutes fall like leaves of autumn, running away from the dull tick of electronical symphony.
Much to her desire, it was 3 in the morning, and insomnia made its usual prescence.
The first four lines of this I would call perfection if I didn’t believe perfection were impossible. Having said that I would say that the first four lines are whatever is just under perfection, extremely great to say the least. “The condescending speed of light” may have been my favorite, but as a whole I found the second line to paint the most vivid picture in my head.
I am doing the math for line seven and my conclusion is that if soul=blood and paint=vein, then the canvas is the human body which will come alive in the form of a painting thanks to the paint and soul, and then of course you are the heart, pumping the paint and soul into the canvas. I am not sure who or what the brain is, but I must maintain that despite your protests you can not be both the heart and the brain. Or perhaps you could?