Brains!

Crap from the journal. I told you I can't write any comprehensible fiction anymore.

In the dark, she left a note by the keys, where it would surely be found. Then moving her legs quickly, so they wouldn't get tangled up with her own doubt, she slid in to the bucket seat. By dawn there was nothing but trucks and dust.

He’s handed a journal. Takes it smiling, forming the lines he’s supposed to. It might even seem unnatural on his face. He never opens it. He’s been told, not by any person, that he has to. They want to know. But it gets lost easily, stacked in aluminum and rubber left over’s.

They run fingers through hair, and only hear sand and waves in the wind. Perfect mind and body, united, beautiful inside and out.

Covered by stones. Cold as ground I didn't miss. Soap without a rope.
Vicing avoidance, sleepless. Hearts veiled, chains.
Cinnamon cliffs, scraggly. Lumpy pillows, discontent.
Fairytale desert, hope. Desperate sky, lust.