[She imagines skipping stones in a pond, ringing a softly chiming bell with a neat tug on a silk cord, tossing copper cholroide in a fire and making it flare blue. Ping. Ping. Ping. There's a feeling of lassitude wound into each touch, an absense of urgency, a child playing tag on a lazy sunday afternoon, the ephemeral sense of hello friend I am here neatly conveyed without any words at all.]
It's not my first instinct. Calling out. We can practice more tomorrow.
no subject
It's not my first instinct. Calling out. We can practice more tomorrow.