Scribble: There is a star in Brooklyn tonight.

      A lonely star watched over the city, lost in the flashing lights of satellites and jetliners, no more than a ghost of starry nights past. Yet, far below, between streetlights and the dim hum of bodega signs, a pair of weary, heavy-lidded eyes stared skyward, not once drifting from the lonely point of light above.
      A flash in that place beyond sight, of a summer-yet-to-be filled with laughter, the kiss of gentle breezes and soft, familiar lips, of verdant days of adventure and starlit nights of tenderness. Fingertips drifted without stirring in the crisp evening air, memories of smooth skin, warm to the touch, floating to the surface. And far above, lost in the color of a star, the cerulean pools of ponds yet to be discovered, and the deepest beauty of unforgettable eyes.
      Soon, came a thought, joined by a laugh and an ever-present smile. Soon we'll be together again, my starlight...
      And somewhere between memories and dream, another star slipped into sight beside its companion, as a smile shone all the brighter.

Scribble: Undead + Robot = this?

      Dangling between spindly, clanking fingers, the strange artifact dangled precariously from its chain, little patches of metal gleaming through the rusted links. Eyes little more than glowing green dots in pools of darkness, the skeletal figure leaned in closer to investigate, placing a free arm against bended knees for balance.
      Cold, gray flesh twisting into a contemplative frown, the detective gradually raised another metal hand, its exposed metal sinews and wires coated in a fine blanket of dust. With delicate precision, a sharp fingertip gently tapped on the ornate brass casing, sending little particles of rust into the air.
      Spinning in the air, the artifact remained otherwise static, casting little particles of rust into the air. Moments passed before, quite suddenly, the side of the strange pendant creaked open, as dust from another time swirled into the ancient air. Startled from his stillness, the detective quickly regained his balance, bringing the exposed surface closer to investigate.
      A quiet tick echoed throughout the catacombs, as the hands of the watch shifted ever so slightly, only to grow still once more. With a frown, the mechanical figure closed the creaking door, clenching the device gently in one hand.
      "I have seen this before..." he began, in a voice choked with dust and gravel. "It once . . . was mine..."

Scribble: Three years.

      A single candle burns. Life flickers in the breeze, while little gobs of wax trickle down pale cheeks, running along ridges of scar tissue.
      It's all a painting, sepia, faded, slight wear along the worn-away frame. No one knows the artist, though hushed rumors say he's long gone. Singature's hidden in the lines of the face, but not in any language we can read.
      Why this angle? Why this symbol? Why are we even here, staring at this damn painting for the third year in a row, when little insight has been gained? Did the artist know his message would be obscured?
      But there is no message. The artist was a madman, barely in control of his own impulses. Half these cuts on the canvas were his.
      No meaning but the one we assign . . . but what are we to make of this, then, when we want to just turn away and find some art that makes sense?
      Running along ridges of scar tissue, little gobs of wax trickle down cheeks, life flickering in the breeze.

RLW...