{taste} is more than an opinion - Windy [WE]
Jan 8, 2019 20:43:02 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Jan 8, 2019 20:43:02 GMT -5
noelani manu
No, I don't know the path
Of what kind of pith I've amassed, long lines of questions
Lessons learned (Lessons, lessons)
The hat looks as ridiculous as the sash he worse for a week straight after his astounding second place finish, and she cackles just as hard, teardrops welling up at the corners. She tugs it down, over his head as he yelps, and tries on one for herself, prim and proper. The color is mauve, the lavenders cascading down like a willow tree.
She turns, and he's put on another, even stranger than the last. She guffaws, bending over and leaning on her knees
"You dork."
The sights, the sounds - they're all so new, so fresh, she doesn't think she's ever felt so alive. The streets here, in District Eight have an antiquity she's never felt in the Capitol, well worn and weathered by work. And the stalls, springing from the ground in a variety as eclectic as the wildflowers they paint with their fingers, music emanating from a busted up speaker in the studio. It's amazing what can be created with five hands instead of one, eight legs instead of two.
Jet had to pull her in on the train: the door thrown open, she had leaned on the railing and flung her arms out, breathing in the air - the air! that flew past as they sped off, anxiety melting off of her each hour spent moving. She's alive here, she thinks, as she chomps down on a rack of pork painted with the richest sauce, smoky and tangy. It gets on her face and she doesn't care, grabbing at cornbread that's so pure - who knew sugar wasn't sweetness deconstructed?
His hair blows in the breeze, his nose wrinkles, and she smiles.
"Hey," she says, turning towards him, sincerity laced in every cell. "Thanks for coming with me."
---
666 ʇ - Bon Iver
White Elephant 2018: Noelani Manu ↔ Jet Weston
No, I don't know the path
Of what kind of pith I've amassed, long lines of questions
Lessons learned (Lessons, lessons)
The hat looks as ridiculous as the sash he worse for a week straight after his astounding second place finish, and she cackles just as hard, teardrops welling up at the corners. She tugs it down, over his head as he yelps, and tries on one for herself, prim and proper. The color is mauve, the lavenders cascading down like a willow tree.
She turns, and he's put on another, even stranger than the last. She guffaws, bending over and leaning on her knees
"You dork."
The sights, the sounds - they're all so new, so fresh, she doesn't think she's ever felt so alive. The streets here, in District Eight have an antiquity she's never felt in the Capitol, well worn and weathered by work. And the stalls, springing from the ground in a variety as eclectic as the wildflowers they paint with their fingers, music emanating from a busted up speaker in the studio. It's amazing what can be created with five hands instead of one, eight legs instead of two.
Jet had to pull her in on the train: the door thrown open, she had leaned on the railing and flung her arms out, breathing in the air - the air! that flew past as they sped off, anxiety melting off of her each hour spent moving. She's alive here, she thinks, as she chomps down on a rack of pork painted with the richest sauce, smoky and tangy. It gets on her face and she doesn't care, grabbing at cornbread that's so pure - who knew sugar wasn't sweetness deconstructed?
His hair blows in the breeze, his nose wrinkles, and she smiles.
"Hey," she says, turning towards him, sincerity laced in every cell. "Thanks for coming with me."
---
666 ʇ - Bon Iver
White Elephant 2018: Noelani Manu ↔ Jet Weston
