RE: :V
06-13-2016, 09:39 AM
4's little golden feathers have been fouling up the place. They drift down to the metaphloor, where another anxious and harangued-looking creature awaits them, stomps on them, rips them up.
21. Its tone is wheedle-reedy, always breaks one's concentration, and gets noise-loathing 8's hackles up like no bird's business. It speaks in should've-missives that missed their deadlines, consigned to a nebulous never-history disconnected from any and all presents.
It's got a substantial nest of those, guarding it jealously against all but 6. Inquiries eventually relegated to less anxious coworkers, offers expiring before you took up on them, snippets in that vein.
You suffered a phone call, and made one yourself to relocate a few of these feathers down 6's complaint-laden throat. 6, unfortunately, has as many mouths as there are known ills in the world. One maw reserved for regurgitating 21's calls to calling doesn't count for much in the grand scheme of its multimodal yodels.
It's all disgustingly symbolic, anyhow.
22. A cigarette burn on reality's flank. Denser than any known avian, with a petulant tenacity easily mistaken for iron resilience. Eyes like embers, winking into existence on the breeziest slight. If you don't pay attention, they'll drift free of 22's skull on those very same winds, and find a nice dark corner of your coat in which to settle. Watching.
Smouldering.
Setting 11 to task; for none are quite as talented at bringing out that particular bird's finest. It's a damn shame, because too often the aftermath is another notch on 2's scarred, indictive flank.
It's a dangerous one, 22.
Under 14's direction, it's sequestered away somewhere deep and quiet, where other birds' agitation won't fan its flames. 14's far from unshakeable though, so 22 does get its occasional time to shine.
The coat's interior been a Hadean starscape of late. They cluster first upon the peripheries (looking outward, at this or that source of irk for 8+17+others), leaving you a little hot under the collar. And your other hems too, sure.
2 augurs these consternation constellations, reminds you as it loves to do of how little well they bode. As it gesticulates to the scorch-marks of clear habit, where 22's embers seem determined to repeatedly malinger, more sparks dance to where they can watch over several hundred birds instead.
The little sun(bitter)n's in zenith, of late. You're coping, though. 14's coping.
21. Its tone is wheedle-reedy, always breaks one's concentration, and gets noise-loathing 8's hackles up like no bird's business. It speaks in should've-missives that missed their deadlines, consigned to a nebulous never-history disconnected from any and all presents.
It's got a substantial nest of those, guarding it jealously against all but 6. Inquiries eventually relegated to less anxious coworkers, offers expiring before you took up on them, snippets in that vein.
You suffered a phone call, and made one yourself to relocate a few of these feathers down 6's complaint-laden throat. 6, unfortunately, has as many mouths as there are known ills in the world. One maw reserved for regurgitating 21's calls to calling doesn't count for much in the grand scheme of its multimodal yodels.
It's all disgustingly symbolic, anyhow.
(05-12-2016, 05:07 AM)Colby Wrote: »go bird postal on your bird boss
22. A cigarette burn on reality's flank. Denser than any known avian, with a petulant tenacity easily mistaken for iron resilience. Eyes like embers, winking into existence on the breeziest slight. If you don't pay attention, they'll drift free of 22's skull on those very same winds, and find a nice dark corner of your coat in which to settle. Watching.
Smouldering.
Setting 11 to task; for none are quite as talented at bringing out that particular bird's finest. It's a damn shame, because too often the aftermath is another notch on 2's scarred, indictive flank.
It's a dangerous one, 22.
Under 14's direction, it's sequestered away somewhere deep and quiet, where other birds' agitation won't fan its flames. 14's far from unshakeable though, so 22 does get its occasional time to shine.
The coat's interior been a Hadean starscape of late. They cluster first upon the peripheries (looking outward, at this or that source of irk for 8+17+others), leaving you a little hot under the collar. And your other hems too, sure.
2 augurs these consternation constellations, reminds you as it loves to do of how little well they bode. As it gesticulates to the scorch-marks of clear habit, where 22's embers seem determined to repeatedly malinger, more sparks dance to where they can watch over several hundred birds instead.
The little sun(bitter)n's in zenith, of late. You're coping, though. 14's coping.
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow