“You should paint it.”
“The box. Paint the box.”
You’re yelling at me, destroying my concentration, as if I need another distraction to pull me away from my writing. Your undulating howls tear the air angrily, impatiently, mercilessly stealing everyone’s attention without regards to what it is they have abandoned for you. I wait for the whining to pass, listening to your wails, waiting for the tantrum to end so my brain can resume its function and concentrate, once again, on the page in front of me.
Robert Langstrum was unpleasantly bored. He woke up to the most beautiful sunny day, with white puffy clouds peppering the bright blue sky. The trees shifted pleasantly from side to side, dancing to the soft breeze. The grass was the very definition of green, gracefully crunching under bare feet with small drops of morning dew. Birds chirped merrily, but not too loudly as to be offensive to the ears; just pleasantly enough to add to the harmony of untouched nature.
When she formed, in a vast interstellar womb, twirling and twisting around herself in a graceful dance of rebirth, they all formed around her. Like spectators, they assembled to watch her come to life, growing and shining, giving them warmth, pulling them together around her. And she adopted them as her own.