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~Llani Lythanthis~
Sometimes, I don't even know.
Snail Guts
Pages smeared with mucus and a pen dried up of ink. The pen continued to play it's silly games and left an eager mark through the eraser stains and melting joints; cramped up nerves and stubborn jaws- in baffled tounges, they chant this familiar chorus of shallow refrain- a broadened topic. No certain situation, nothing applied. Scratches on lines, lines, lines. Minds laid to waste in the grooves of their fingertips as tips met bristols and caught the drying insides, creating symbols conveying what people had come to know as "language"... And you could feel- you could feel it through the plaster walls, every deafened sigh exhaled in the fog, every breath twisting, merging with the torrent of discontent. All was idle.

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