Color Testing Thread 2.0

IF IT WERE POSSIBLE TO DROWN in a sea of people, then dancing was my lifeline.

I was never fond of dancing, my limbs are stiff from years of erecting deals and my movements are as languid as icicles, but, tonight, the thought of synchronizing my steps to the lyrics of a song I don't know inflated some sort of purpose within my lungs that I haven't tasted in centuries. The music was loud enough to make the glass in the shop vibrate, but I wanted it to be louder. I craved to hear a melody so sweet I could taste it on my tongue, I craved to smile so wide that my mask would crack into pieces smaller than my heart, I craved to dance with the stars so long that their fluorescent light would burn the parts that touched me.

The only stars that were present tonight, however, were in the sky, and I figured out a long time ago that I could never reach them, no matter how hard I tried. But, the next best thing I had to a dance with iridescence was a dance with Nino, and that burned me more than any stars could have.

The day we last looked each other in the eye was the day Learna died, and every day since then felt like he was shoveling in another pile of dirt upon my buried coffin. I used to imagine dying, and how he might dance over my grave. Although, maybe tonight, I wouldn't mind dancing with him.

Hurricanes have torn down upon me since then - it pried my petals open and forced my roots to soak in the flood of water. Sometimes I visit their graves, sometimes I sit on their old beds, sometimes I just don't think about them. It gets easier to ignore certain scars, after a while, but they don't go away, and they don't hurt less. The last deal I made was with myself, "To never make another deal again," but, oh, Ursula, you surely know yourself enough by now to realize that deals were made to be broken.

And, we are. Stupid, foolish, broken things dancing on cracked pavements and make shift dance floors, using music and rigid movements to shake out the story of two girls who died. Apologies and burdens fumble in my mouth (it fills the gaps between my teeth and tongue, with words that feel like the pearls adorning my mask) but the heavy truth that weighs within them all is what keeps my lips as silent as Penelope's or Learna's. I find Nino easily through the foliage of entwined limbs and sounds, but how is it possible that seeing him makes me feel like I'm sailing and anchored at the same time?

Yes, we're all quite broken, but the masks are here to hide these things for a reason.

Before he can see my pearled mask or black gown, I clasp his pale hand in my own and pull him through the sea of people with me, mapping our way to the dance floor. If it's the pulse of the music or the pulse of his heart, I'm not sure, but I feel a rhythm beat against my hand, and, for once, it synchronizes with my own.

"Teach me how to dance, Ripley."

If I'm going to drown, I want him to be my lifeline.

IF IT WERE POSSIBLE TO DROWN in a sea of people, then dancing was my lifeline.

I was never fond of dancing, my limbs are stiff from years of erecting deals and my movements are as languid as icicles, but, tonight, the thought of synchronizing my steps to the lyrics of a song I don't know inflated some sort of purpose within my lungs that I haven't tasted in centuries. The music was loud enough to make the glass in the shop vibrate, but I wanted it to be louder. I craved to hear a melody so sweet I could taste it on my tongue, I craved to smile so wide that my mask would crack into pieces smaller than my heart, I craved to dance with the stars so long that their fluorescent light would burn the parts that touched me.

The only stars that were present tonight, however, were in the sky, and I figured out a long time ago that I could never reach them, no matter how hard I tried. But, the next best thing I had to a dance with iridescence was a dance with Nino, and that burned me more than any stars could have.

The day we last looked each other in the eye was the day Learna died, and every day since then felt like he was shoveling in another pile of dirt upon my buried coffin. I used to imagine dying, and how he might dance over my grave. Although, maybe tonight, I wouldn't mind dancing with him.

Hurricanes have torn down upon me since then - it pried my petals open and forced my roots to soak in the flood of water. Sometimes I visit their graves, sometimes I sit on their old beds, sometimes I just don't think about them. It gets easier to ignore certain scars, after a while, but they don't go away, and they don't hurt less. The last deal I made was with myself, "To never make another deal again," but, oh, Ursula, you surely know yourself enough by now to realize that deals were made to be broken.

And, we are. Stupid, foolish, broken things dancing on cracked pavements and make shift dance floors, using music and rigid movements to shake out the story of two girls who died. Apologies and burdens fumble in my mouth (it fills the gaps between my teeth and tongue, with words that feel like the pearls adorning my mask) but the heavy truth that weighs within them all is what keeps my lips as silent as Penelope's or Learna's. I find Nino easily through the foliage of entwined limbs and sounds, but how is it possible that seeing him makes me feel like I'm sailing and anchored at the same time?

Yes, we're all quite broken, but the masks are here to hide these things for a reason.

Before he can see my pearled mask or black gown, I clasp his pale hand in my own and pull him through the sea of people with me, mapping our way to the dance floor. If it's the pulse of the music or the pulse of his heart, I'm not sure, but I feel a rhythm beat against my hand, and, for once, it synchronizes with my own.

"Teach me how to dance, Ripley."

If I'm going to drown, I want him to be my lifeline.

IF IT WERE POSSIBLE TO DROWN in a sea of people, then dancing was my lifeline.

I was never fond of dancing, my limbs are stiff from years of erecting deals and my movements are as languid as icicles, but, tonight, the thought of synchronizing my steps to the lyrics of a song I don't know inflated some sort of purpose within my lungs that I haven't tasted in centuries. The music was loud enough to make the glass in the shop vibrate, but I wanted it to be louder. I craved to hear a melody so sweet I could taste it on my tongue, I craved to smile so wide that my mask would crack into pieces smaller than my heart, I craved to dance with the stars so long that their fluorescent light would burn the parts that touched me.

The only stars that were present tonight, however, were in the sky, and I figured out a long time ago that I could never reach them, no matter how hard I tried. But, the next best thing I had to a dance with iridescence was a dance with Nino, and that burned me more than any stars could have.

The day we last looked each other in the eye was the day Learna died, and every day since then felt like he was shoveling in another pile of dirt upon my buried coffin. I used to imagine dying, and how he might dance over my grave. Although, maybe tonight, I wouldn't mind dancing with him.

Hurricanes have torn down upon me since then - it pried my petals open and forced my roots to soak in the flood of water. Sometimes I visit their graves, sometimes I sit on their old beds, sometimes I just don't think about them. It gets easier to ignore certain scars, after a while, but they don't go away, and they don't hurt less. The last deal I made was with myself, "To never make another deal again," but, oh, Ursula, you surely know yourself enough by now to realize that deals were made to be broken.

And, we are. Stupid, foolish, broken things dancing on cracked pavements and make shift dance floors, using music and rigid movements to shake out the story of two girls who died. Apologies and burdens fumble in my mouth (it fills the gaps between my teeth and tongue, with words that feel like the pearls adorning my mask) but the heavy truth that weighs within them all is what keeps my lips as silent as Penelope's or Learna's. I find Nino easily through the foliage of entwined limbs and sounds, but how is it possible that seeing him makes me feel like I'm sailing and anchored at the same time?

Yes, we're all quite broken, but the masks are here to hide these things for a reason.

Before he can see my pearled mask or black gown, I clasp his pale hand in my own and pull him through the sea of people with me, mapping our way to the dance floor. If it's the pulse of the music or the pulse of his heart, I'm not sure, but I feel a rhythm beat against my hand, and, for once, it synchronizes with my own.

"Teach me how to dance, Ripley."

If I'm going to drown, I want him to be my lifeline.

IF IT WERE POSSIBLE TO DROWN in a sea of people, then dancing was my lifeline.

I was never fond of dancing, my limbs are stiff from years of erecting deals and my movements are as languid as icicles, but, tonight, the thought of synchronizing my steps to the lyrics of a song I don't know inflated some sort of purpose within my lungs that I haven't tasted in centuries. The music was loud enough to make the glass in the shop vibrate, but I wanted it to be louder. I craved to hear a melody so sweet I could taste it on my tongue, I craved to smile so wide that my mask would crack into pieces smaller than my heart, I craved to dance with the stars so long that their fluorescent light would burn the parts that touched me.

The only stars that were present tonight, however, were in the sky, and I figured out a long time ago that I could never reach them, no matter how hard I tried. But, the next best thing I had to a dance with iridescence was a dance with Nino, and that burned me more than any stars could have.

The day we last looked each other in the eye was the day Learna died, and every day since then felt like he was shoveling in another pile of dirt upon my buried coffin. I used to imagine dying, and how he might dance over my grave. Although, maybe tonight, I wouldn't mind dancing with him.

Hurricanes have torn down upon me since then - it pried my petals open and forced my roots to soak in the flood of water. Sometimes I visit their graves, sometimes I sit on their old beds, sometimes I just don't think about them. It gets easier to ignore certain scars, after a while, but they don't go away, and they don't hurt less. The last deal I made was with myself, "To never make another deal again," but, oh, Ursula, you surely know yourself enough by now to realize that deals were made to be broken.

And, we are. Stupid, foolish, broken things dancing on cracked pavements and make shift dance floors, using music and rigid movements to shake out the story of two girls who died. Apologies and burdens fumble in my mouth (it fills the gaps between my teeth and tongue, with words that feel like the pearls adorning my mask) but the heavy truth that weighs within them all is what keeps my lips as silent as Penelope's or Learna's. I find Nino easily through the foliage of entwined limbs and sounds, but how is it possible that seeing him makes me feel like I'm sailing and anchored at the same time?

Yes, we're all quite broken, but the masks are here to hide these things for a reason.

Before he can see my pearled mask or black gown, I clasp his pale hand in my own and pull him through the sea of people with me, mapping our way to the dance floor. If it's the pulse of the music or the pulse of his heart, I'm not sure, but I feel a rhythm beat against my hand, and, for once, it synchronizes with my own.

"Teach me how to dance, Ripley."

If I'm going to drown, I want him to be my lifeline.

IF IT WERE POSSIBLE TO DROWN in a sea of people, then dancing was my lifeline.

I was never fond of dancing, my limbs are stiff from years of erecting deals and my movements are as languid as icicles, but, tonight, the thought of synchronizing my steps to the lyrics of a song I don't know inflated some sort of purpose within my lungs that I haven't tasted in centuries. The music was loud enough to make the glass in the shop vibrate, but I wanted it to be louder. I craved to hear a melody so sweet I could taste it on my tongue, I craved to smile so wide that my mask would crack into pieces smaller than my heart, I craved to dance with the stars so long that their fluorescent light would burn the parts that touched me.

The only stars that were present tonight, however, were in the sky, and I figured out a long time ago that I could never reach them, no matter how hard I tried. But, the next best thing I had to a dance with iridescence was a dance with Nino, and that burned me more than any stars could have.

The day we last looked each other in the eye was the day Learna died, and every day since then felt like he was shoveling in another pile of dirt upon my buried coffin. I used to imagine dying, and how he might dance over my grave. Although, maybe tonight, I wouldn't mind dancing with him.

Hurricanes have torn down upon me since then - it pried my petals open and forced my roots to soak in the flood of water. Sometimes I visit their graves, sometimes I sit on their old beds, sometimes I just don't think about them. It gets easier to ignore certain scars, after a while, but they don't go away, and they don't hurt less. The last deal I made was with myself, "To never make another deal again," but, oh, Ursula, you surely know yourself enough by now to realize that deals were made to be broken.

And, we are. Stupid, foolish, broken things dancing on cracked pavements and make shift dance floors, using music and rigid movements to shake out the story of two girls who died. Apologies and burdens fumble in my mouth (it fills the gaps between my teeth and tongue, with words that feel like the pearls adorning my mask) but the heavy truth that weighs within them all is what keeps my lips as silent as Penelope's or Learna's. I find Nino easily through the foliage of entwined limbs and sounds, but how is it possible that seeing him makes me feel like I'm sailing and anchored at the same time?

Yes, we're all quite broken, but the masks are here to hide these things for a reason.

Before he can see my pearled mask or black gown, I clasp his pale hand in my own and pull him through the sea of people with me, mapping our way to the dance floor. If it's the pulse of the music or the pulse of his heart, I'm not sure, but I feel a rhythm beat against my hand, and, for once, it synchronizes with my own.

"Teach me how to dance, Ripley."

If I'm going to drown, I want him to be my lifeline.

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