Static

Her spider fingers plucked and strummed away to create the silvery shavings of pitch that floated up like a feather caught on one single gust of wind.

_Keep feeling the steel, Keep feeling the wood on the tips of my tentacle suctions..._

Pop.

His beak parted and spoke each word of the text, as he waved his wings across and up and down. There were no windows anywhere, but there wasn't a place to fly to. The light that made his feathers shine, though they were black, I knew that they were a reflection of the sound too... the music of the bird whistles and the pats of their bird feet on the carpet.

Thup. Vfoooh.

Then of course, there is that fucking beautiful light. Just as you learn to be afraid and angry at the things that hurt you, I am afraid that I have become a sad and bitter soul.

I won't say that I can't be saved-- I can! But only by myself. And I have never felt so static and grey.

Even with all this beautiful music and light, surrounded by muses waiting for me to break into it and smile...