novy

One hundred thousand thoughts running through my head and I sprouted wings and flew to your house to get rid of them. It didn't matter that two parts of my back had just exploded, the crimson blood on the ivory white of the feathers which made up the wings was a nice contrast. Almost like how forensics scientists make blood splatters and reconstruct how someone was killed.
If it was bright outside I would've suffered through it. You know how much I love it to be overcast and windy. A cool wind, of course.
If you asked me what I thought would be perfect at this particular moment I'd reply:
"We'd sit on top of a hill covered in green grass and small plants ranging from a few inches to a foot or so high. There'd be bamboo trees everywhere. From the top of our hill we'd see green moutains, clouds, as far as the eye can see. We'd descend an ancient stone stairway weaving itself down the mountain; wise from hundreds of years worth of footsteps. Then we'd turn to each other, as if there was something we both thought and understood at the same time, and smile, and say nothing, and worry about nothing, and fear nothing. Because we'd be there in that green mountain range, and down the hill, at the end of the wise stairs, we'd still be together, and we could sink into the abnormally soft red couch and dream about nothing, because dreaming about nothing means that everything is perfect, and afterall, you did ask me what I think would be perfect."
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Something is wrong with this piece, I'm not satisfied with it. Help me think of what it is. Something needs to be added or changed or the whole thing needs to be nuked alltogether.