Hannah was addicted to her long threads, specifically for other people, but not from herself. She felt imprisoned in the dungeons, or, to sound closer at heart, Gattica.
“Is the dirt all gone from my feet?” her child asked her, politely—as in leaving this message instead of cleaving to writer’s beat.
Just now, Hannah felt like a Finnish soldier, where all the boulevards were grey and the sky forged lights of teal and emerald. She had forgotten how to take anything seriously, and as if they, (the other craftsmen,) could make her. For the day was beyond her, and she felt itching to reword every reworded line-up. But, she thought to herself, she was number one. That could make her the laughing gun she always dreamt she could handle.
The control planes on her microwave gave her the shivers. She was trying to heat up coffee and kept getting interrupted by the fellow newsman. There was so much to crave, so little to think about these days. She felt like that was what getting over a break-up could do to a person, after the hate and the melancholia and manic screaming of course.
Hannah wanted her family to take care of her by disappearing offline. The internet was crappy, and there was not much to do— (in other words, all the time in the world.) On her desk were peonies. They always inspired her to write better than everyone in the history of all the books, while these here simpletons were most likeably competing for attention!
How could they, when this long thread meant so much to her!!
It was her cosset, that token that she would always think of as a candle to the finish. lt could go on longer but i wanted it all of my life. So please! l ass-pect 6pages, thns.
To view links or images in signatures your post count must be 10 or greater. You currently have 0 posts.