Sitting inside the broken glass of melancholy promises and lust for romantisiced dreams of rooms of art and lack of stress in cluttered systems of someone else's dream. The words keep stringing themselves across blipping screens and screams well up inside pretty heads and paint drips off scarred fingertips and a hippie island of cold creativity dance like sugar plums through lost thoughts. Sitting with crayon smeared daydreams while the phone rings, the paper shuffles and poor ravaged thoughts explode in lusty care while muffins dry heave is washed away by vanilla scented beans. Looking up at windows past reflection.Flashback November 2, 2003 (100 words) Her eyes floated faintly while screaming out in pain and fatigue, blurred and droopy, lost in oblivion. The weekend has ended and soon they must peer out at blinking screens and fluorescent hues of meeting papers and hurried work. Keyboard clicks and Monday morningâ€™s cold entry into icy flakes of sanded streets reaching out for warmth in a caffienated jolt of nicotine stained fingers. Now there is comfort to be found in a warm bed of covered quilts and the dream filled void of the night. Warm skin trickling across my smooth surface in a dripping cacophony of soundless heat.