Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
In the end, it didn’t really matter. Melita, lost in her state of confusion, didn’t have anything to occupy the deer. So it disappeared with more splashes of swamp water, the bog sticking to her even further and more than before. She finally relented and crawled her way back towards the banks, a heavy sigh flickering through. Fangorn rushed along the fringes too, shaking his head, either somewhat dismayed or disappointed; it was difficult to tell.
She started to wring out the edges of her dress as Milo spoke up, her eyes watching the brown water drip from her clothes. Those sentiments and notions seemed fair enough, and the honeybee raised her head to glance upward, bringing one dirty hand to slightly above her brow, shielding her gaze from the sun (and leaving a ridiculous, muddy mark on her skin). “I suppose.” She rounded back to her belongings, hefting her bag over her shoulder, mildly disgruntled by incapable of explaining why. “What else do you think is out there?” And she marched forward, undaunted by the unknown particulars.
She started to wring out the edges of her dress as Milo spoke up, her eyes watching the brown water drip from her clothes. Those sentiments and notions seemed fair enough, and the honeybee raised her head to glance upward, bringing one dirty hand to slightly above her brow, shielding her gaze from the sun (and leaving a ridiculous, muddy mark on her skin). “I suppose.” She rounded back to her belongings, hefting her bag over her shoulder, mildly disgruntled by incapable of explaining why. “What else do you think is out there?” And she marched forward, undaunted by the unknown particulars.
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
