Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heart beat revolving like the crime it is in my deathly chest?

It kills me sometimes, how people die.

So many humans. So many colours. They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-coloured clouds, beating, like black hearts. And then. There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.

Better that we leave the paint behind," Hans told her, "than ever forget the music.

It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.

Personally, I like a chocolate-covered sky. Dark, dark chocolate. People say it suits me. I do, however, try to enjoy every color I see - the whole spectrum. A billion or so flavors, none of them quite the same, and a sky to slowly suck on. It takes the edge off the stress. It helps me relax.

She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.