Random Prose

Broken beginnings for you and yours:

The book was battered and torn. Yellow, as though it should have been found in an attic on a rainy day, not here. Oh, definitely not here. I glanced around quickly and opened it: music. Pages and pages of notes. They appeared to be exercises, not art, for limber fingers to stumble over. I never should have opened it.

...

The trees there were spindly. They grew tall and lanky, and if you tried to walk through them they scratched you. They creaked in the wind. Their tops were tangled masses. When I was young and still knew how to play, I would swing on the vine-like ropes that hung down. When I got older and became a fan of metaphors, I would imagine myself one of those vines. A tree that had forgotten its roots.

...

Orange is a sunny color. If I had my way I would have two bedrooms--one for days when I feel healthy, and one for days when I feel self-destructive. Fortunately, the latter has already been constructed. The other would be painted orange, with a pale pink trim. It would have no anorexic models on the walls, no old Algebra tests on the floor, and a very comfortable bed. I would curl up in a sumptuous yellow comforter at night and dream my quiet dreams, awake and asleep, and in the day I would leave them behind. I would live very patiently and dream persistently, and eventually I wouldn't need a huge sun-yellow bed anymore.