poppystrike

There once was a girl who looked out of windows a lot. Nothing inside the room seemed to interest her so much as what lay outside. For a time she would stare and all she saw was the density of the clouds. Greyness so dense that if you walked through it you'd choke. So she stopped looking. She shut her eyes but even then she found herself dreaming of walls of monotone, always imposing, always intruding.

As she sits in the fading light with her nose against the glass, she see's now that the clouds now have edges. Some have holes, and some are moving. And if they're so dense then surely they can hold her weight and take her somewhere. An hour now. An hour she's been taking it all in; grey has never been so vibrant.

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