Soft, white dancer.

My writing has been placed on the back shelf, due to the lack of free time.
But now I sit here by myself with all the time in the world: Let's see where this goes..

In my mind I see white linen against something rough; it's dancing in a gentle wind and a dark substance, ink-like, bleeds through it like a newborn river molesting the earth until it becomes the only thing dominating the scene. This ink-like river scatters drops from the linen onto the ground. The drops bleed roots that sink into the ground and trees begin to grow, elephantine oaks when they are done; branches reaching into the sky their fingers stir the stars in the dark pool of the night sky. The stars; soft, gems of perfection melt into each other leaving a wake of shimmering cream. As the sky settles into it's inevitable calm state a chilling wind sweeps through, a wind that does not move but damages nonetheless. The sky starts to freeze, shooting ice daggers deeper and deeper into itself, and becomes a solid pond with a tint of pain and smells of secrets.

I'm hungry.