Call it magic, call it truth.

Those were magical wings.
Woven together by plucked heartstrings and threads of emotion; with feathers of love and lust and joy and anger.
They were kaleidoscopes of dancing colour, capable of encompassing every tint in this universe and a million others.
They were glued together with moonshine and interstellar dust sparkled in them like a coating of shimmering glitter.
They shone with sunbursts and starfire,and the bright sparkle off the surface of diamonds and dewdrops.
And oh,did they fly.
They took her across countries and continents, across space and time itself.
Old, old civilisations with crumbling monuments and gleaming castles with kings and lovely princesses; lands of saffron and spices and gold; magic carpets and rich,heady scents. The stuff of myth and legend.
New,sparkling realms millennia in the future, with skyscrapers having tips in the clouds, kissing the stars; with diamonds and silver and unheard-of, undreamt-of technology.
Planets light years away, dancing across galaxies, stopping by in each and weaving her tapestry of adventure there. For nothing was impossible when she was flying.
Places high, high up in space where nebulae splashed colour across black in blues and pinks and lavenders; churning, changing as it collapsed upon itself to burst into a burning star.
Places and people on this mad,wonderful world that she would never see but on these wings of wildfire and fantasy.
Dreamscapes and lands long lost, places where no one else had ever dared to go, she went to all of them, and then further.
Milling crowds and deserted places, burning heat and cool temperate and freezing blizzards; she’d been through them all and soared higher.
These were wings no force in any universe could ever clip; they never grew old, their colours never faded. Each flight made them stronger, more beautiful, a billion stories and sights nestles among their feathers.
And in her trips and stories she loved and longed; she laughed and cried, won and lost, and was more alive than ever before. For in these wings, in these stories, the thorns of reality bled through the rose of dreams.



Worn out places, worn out faces.

The world is an ugly stew. A vicious sea.
Glass made to be broken. Confidences are made to be betrayed;secrets made to be revealed. Love destined to end in disaster and tears. Hearts made to be stamped on until nothing remains but broken pieces. Hopes and dreams made to be shattered. Iron turns from a proud,shining silver to the red-brown of rust, its strength buckling and crumbling to dust.
Happiness; a fleeting emotion that can change to despair in the blink of an eye. Too transitory, too despairing. The voices of a million suppressed souls seeking utterance,the wail of a billion broken hearts like grotesque music. With such bitter ugliness,its a wonder beauty still exists.