When you breathe, the world itself flows through your lungs. Eternity stretching out before and afterward, the story that begins and ends in the middle.

Picking berries on breezy summer days.

[River is currently on the fifth floor, lying on her back in the hallway with her hair and dress spread out across the nigh-invisible floor.]

Shouldn't be a word. Perfect. Shouldn't exist.

Serves no real purpose. Fools otherwise perfectly. Good. People.

Calls them close and when they think they have it, finally, they got through the cliffs and the rocks and they reached perfection, with all its wings and flowers and perfection, they crash and fall and their skin rots away tearing ( Read more... )

You, you blind pigs gorging on your brothers mindlessly, ignorantly, craving more for the taste.

Pushing through and trampling one another, not knowing and not caring. Through the filth you refuse to see, acknowledge what surrounds you. Choking on black hearts and the pigs' skins that doom you as soon as sate you.

Bile so flooded burns your flesh

Padfoot. Time for your shots.

Four logs.

Six poles.

One rope.

...I have made a raft with the maximum stability offered with the materials provided.

Not hard, Arland.

no

don't like it

white on white on white on white on black
blacker than any darkness

need... out

NEED OUT

close your eyes, river, and just let yourself flow to the ocean
rush fast, past the others on the way
rush like rapids

....Head hurts. Looking at this place. Makes my head hurt.

Take your wires out of my head they don't belong there
Seem to have misplaced them.
Misplaced.

Misplaced Simon?