Himuro Himuro A white canvas. A completely white floor. Blank as blank can be. Himuro found himself surrounded by white. White. A white sea, and he was on a bed island. One of those beds you might find in a hospital. A cot-like sleeping place with hard pillows, an adjustable recliner that never was comfortable enough. He was sweating. He was sweating buckets. He looked around. There was no-one anywhere. He had never been more scared in his life. "Hey." Said a voice. He turned suddenly. Opposite him was a woman, wearing a white blouse and a dark gray skirt. Her clothes were tight. She was sweating. Sweating right through her blouse. Her bra was red. The last thing Himuro wanted to think about at that time was sex, but he thought about it anyway. His face got hotter. He narrowed his gaze and answered. "Hi." He said,
The Cat in the MazeThere once was a cat in a mazethat never once altered its gazeIt was so still and quietwhen everyone walked by itthat no-one knew it'd been dead for three days.
Guitar PicksGuitar PicksHey,I'm sure I've told you tons of times already about my guitar playing, and my guitar picks. I'm sure I have, but I don't know if I've ever really thought about them. No matter where I go, I always have my guitar picks. It's become some sort of habit now. Not a bad habit, but just something that's become routine. Every day I pick up at least two or three guitar picks and stuff them into the change pocket in my pants. I used to tell everyone that I carry them because "Well, you never know when you might need to play a guitar, ha ha," but I'm not sure if that's really why I carry them. It's not like I'm carrying a specific pick one pick doesn't hold some special meaning. It's really just any pick.Sometimes I don't even notice they're there. They only weigh, what, an ounce each? Maybe? They're tiny. Miniscule. But I feel like they really mean something. I actually barely play guitar when I carry them around, but they remind me of the guitar. They remind me of the m