Current mood:

blah

o hay.
remember that meme from forever ago? i was finally struck with the inspiration to actually write one.

sorry for the luke overload guys. it must be getting really depressing by now. :/


His breath is quiet when he strings the pages together. Black silk woven through porcelain white. The papers blend against his fingers, just as white, but dirty, tainted. Moon pale fingers dance over the words, cut out and pasted with careful precision. Every letter he's made count, every word to spin a story. It's a sad one, echoed in the dark splatterings of ink and tears and crushed petals. A story that sprouted sad, blossomed happy, then wilted in betrayal and death. He's memorized every twist and turn of the tale, from every sigh, every moan, every sudden shock of the unknown. The silk in his fingers mimic those twists, knotting up where sadness bloomed the most. Or was it happiness. He can no longer tell. When he finishes, he holds the scrapbook up to his chest, and when he's quiet enough, he thinks he can hear a heart beat.