New brushstrokes amidst the book fight. The gaps between the fragments is where a little paint can seep in. Unsure of the vision's origin. Perhaps, despite these chill threads webbed about streets and eyes, within the blood is something that longs for submersion. A quiet forest wafting like smoke, above which a flashing blade tattoos arcs in jest under the nose of a great lumbering surge.
There's another sheet of white awaiting stimulus; dormant, sleepy and vague, unprepared, but not unwilling, to yield its frost to the smiling pretense of winter's step-sibling sun - a laugh without teeth or mirth or sound.
Where is the space for the Seaweed and the Slipstream?