I am spilled on the spring concrete… Don’t look..! Don’t just look!.. Would I..? Would you..? Wouldn’t you..? Wouldn’t you rather…see?.. azure spring spread on the sky, spray painted with floating white… A smell of acrylic paint tasting almost bitter but elusively, inexpressibly pleasant-like… Cotton clouds dabbing on my tongue this meta-odor.. Suddenly I felt her talons snatching away the taste of my personal sky… fly.. she said… and I heard… fly…
Story Of The Footloose 