A creative moment wrestles with the circumference, the bare-knuckle dancing, chanced at happenings – a ferocious soul only she cannot feel its shape anymore. Wearing her favourite savoured attire – the diamond city petticoat with a fierce stretching of pink – it almost all manages to make some sense again.
She’s been feeling a little big bit livid, and they see it, feel its failing twist and dive, drives itself on through the paternoster shoes that she chooses to wear, anywhere that will not truly have her any more than the last paled in significant places.
Wherein her scripts have been meaning to mean something only they do not seem succinct, not nearly good enough anymore, and her back to basics reality – wherein she will cry and stare at the standing television set which wishes that she was in it again. “Hello, apartment, how much to rent my mind right back, perhaps?”
Yet the public still waits, wants, still screaming for her name to bring itself back to a mild kindly dimly lit life. All of the rhyme only none of the wrought iron wrinkling attitudes anymore. Forlorn and forgotten, deeper than depressed, still red-ribboned and attempts as she might to find a way back to something compares itself to anything. Fixable? No, not really.
Her heart had been broken, torn at the entrance. Resembling the tremblings, lighting herself her final cigarette, doom impends… It all depends, really, on everything and nothing all that sizeable anymore.
Been justifiably taken away from her favourite savoured memories. Kisses fond farewell to a funny kind of unkindly creation. A fondness for unbreakable eggshells. Soon as something magical gets itself hijacked by tragical. And she sits with this til utterly frozen, holding those swollen memories near the edge – turning to walk immediately away from themselves. She should not have to do this.