Scribble: To be expanded into something called "The Immortal."

      With each footstep he took, the trees behind him blossomed, only to give way to leaves that grew and fell in a heartbeat, leaving bare branches to blossom once more. As branches creaked and dripped with dew, depressions left by footsteps soon gave way to moss, then grass, only to wither away and disappear under snow, again and again, gradually hiding any hint of a path. Yet, ahead of him, the path remained clear, the trees still budding with the kiss of spring, and all seemed perfectly still.
      Is this what forever is like? he thought, as ancient eyes drifted along the road ahead.
      He looked at his soft, ageless hands, stopping long enough to be buried beneath snow that would melt away each second. No longer could he feel the cold of winter or warmth of summer's sun; only his sight could tell him of the season's constant shift. Looking into the air, all he could see was the rich blue of a thousand days and nights at once, merging into the richest color he'd ever known.
      "Almost as beautiful as her eyes," he whispered, lost in the wind, as moss slowly overtook his legs. "Almost..."

Freeform: Wounds.

      Standing in front of a mirror, I expect to see my own reflection when, instead, cast in the pale light of some long-ago moon, there sits a small girl, curled-up with her knees to her chin. Little cuts adorn her bare arms and legs, from scars freshly opened by tiny little fingernails, as she hides her face behind her silver-white hair, flowing atop her head and down past her shoulders.
      She trembles, but is afraid to cry. I want nothing more than to reach through the glass, and in doing so, I find myself in her dark little realm, looking above to see no moon, not even a star glinting in the distance. Just darkness, the cold unfathomable, and this little wounded, trembling girl, who glows just like the moon.
      She looks up at me with eyes red with tears, and irises a shade of red between warming and hurt. I bend down, crouching despite the effort, and follow my instinct to just take her in my arms, press her tight against my chest, and not let go.
      "It's okay," I whisper, feeling her tremble. "I know you hurt . . . it's okay, I'm here now..."
      She cries, and the tears run down my cheeks, as I see with her eyes all the little cuts and scars, her only desire laid bare.
      She only ever wanted to be loved, unconditionally.
      But instead, she found only pain, only the need to hide away, to keep from ever being hurt so terribly again, even if all she ever did was to keep picking at the scabs.
      She withdraws almost as soon as the tears began, returning to her curled-up position on the ground. "It's okay," I whisper, that little smile still on my face somehow, "it takes time. And we have all the time in the world, I promise."
      She winces at the word, but somehow, she doesn't hold herself so tightly. I slip away, if only for a moment, to write these very words, knowing that they, too, are flawed, but showing her all the same, as I look back into the mirror to see my own face again, wondering, hoping that she'll be in my arms to keep, that she won't have to be alone any longer.

Scribble: Another one of those streams...

      She walked with moonlit eyes, or so they'd say if she ever kept them open or free. Hiding behind thick bangs that swayed when she walked, they remained a lunar mystery, a glowing reminder of the brightness inside.
      She walked onto streets paved with broken stones and the tears of old men, dreams long forgotten and lost to time. Yet, every so often she would bow her head, bangs threatening to reach down to the ground, as though paying respect to what was lost before she was even conceived as an idea. She walks, solemn, keeping the moon enclosed in threaded jail cells with each step.
      But I, I with nothing more to do than wax poetic on the midnight wanderings of the eccentric, step beside, trying to get a passing glance at what ocular marvels lie hidden in the dark.
      For a brief moment, I see the glow. And then, in a heartbeat, she is gone, leaving nothing in her wake save the full moon above, suddenly free of cloudy oppressors.
      So I walk...

Scribble: A particularly wistful evening.

      Somewhere she sits, sipping on some tea on some lazy coffeehouse evening, gracefully brushing locks from eyes so warm that passersby thaw at the sight.
      Somewhere she sits, reading only half the pages, as one eye drifts around to other smiles and laughs and fingers delicately interlaced, only to leave fingers longing for some warmth...
      Somewhere she sits, closing the other half of her book and turning the warmth of her eyes to melt the hands on the clock.
      Somewhere she sits, and wonders if we'll ever meet...

Freeform: Empty.

On a desk there sits a cup, where once two could be found.

Two cups, four hands, steam rising into the air alongside laughter and voices, a cluttered desk, and a bed full of warmth.

A bed, formerly of two pillows, now only of one.

All that's left to be doubled is space. All without a single wall having been knocked down.

Two cups.

Bare walls.

And no sleep.