This is why it's naptime...

They called it a small. If that's small, so's my head...

ouch

How many times have I seen a heart ripped out in a movie, or a game? I guess - an oddly inflated amount of times now that I think on it. The soon to be heartless stands hapless, chest invaded to the wrist by a powerful arm, a surprised look etched on thier face as they look from thier attacker to the now sucking chest wound, perhaps pausing to contemplate thier still beating heart.
I always wondered why no one fights back, save Indiana Jones.
I think I know now. How could they possibly have seen that coming until it was too late; until they find thier blood made immobile by the lack of a pump and the light fading in thier own eyes. That last lingering look. How? How could you, no matter how bitter of ememies we've been, have done this... then they fall, heartless, lifeless.

It's late....

Flash... something

I'm supposed to be writing, but I haven't been...

There's something electric about the look in her eyes as she sits, glistening guacamole green to the second knuckle. It's an extraordinary thing to watch the ecstatic way she eats something she enjoys. Her with her wild hair and hawkish features, her bony fingers and easy smile.
It's almost as though she experiences things on another level, has a more... intrinsic experience. You can almost see it on her face 'This thing is good and in this moment I'll stay until it's gone; or no longer good.'
What a way to live life, living and dying by a series of finite moments? The good most be so much more vivid, all bright colors and round flavors. The bad, doubly devastating and ashen.
There reckless sort of freedom attached. Normal boundaries only apply in the most loose of interpretations. Curisosity always fully engaged. Questions spill forth, yet there is a surety - a bald confidence underneath.
Here lives this educated hippie, with grabby toes and spindly limbs, diving heart first into life.