Hushed Willows blu(m)enmond

i am ... so sorry ;-;

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it took awhile to break his focus from the cankerworms defoliating the boughs of the ash tree above him.

her scent is tinctured with faint sourness, but elicited the blood in him to palpitate in response, a highly condensed substance vibrating to the so discrete frequencies. every time the spoon tried to stir him, he proved to be too viscous, the handle snapping, always far enough to avoid women in his venturing (for the most part).

besides that woman—any other iteration was an electric boogaloo that would prove to be an unnecessary and frankly inferior sequel. besides, what women would want his only fractured seaglass eye? all the imperfect clefts of his face—far too ghastly, surely!

his muscles are pulled taut by clothespin and he's hung like a laundry line, the wind blows and and the ache in his loins seizes him, should nature lay its things on him and swing him dry.

though she'll ply at him and find the mollusk in living armor, and he would not last. it wasn't just an immoveable object versus perpetual motion, it was a river that would run him through and erode him to the pebble-bed beneath.