Freewriting

OK, so something to write about. Freewriting. Two discs, like eyes, staring at a girl with a triangle on her wrist. And the triangle sees her too. Lamps flickering, dripping peach-like onto pillows of light. The light is fading, and the triangle knows this. To walk barefoot in the rain you need to be in possession of shoes - otherwise the idea of barefoot, as in without shoes, wouldn't exist, because to be without something you first need to have it to lose it. 9We need the c to be there, because with the c it would be spelt wrong. And wrongly spelt words break the heart of the girl with the triangular wrist. Except that the triangle has vanished, retreated into the shadows, and how can a wrist be triangular? They could be, but they never will be.
A mummified butterfly stares at the girl, who is searching for the fly that was never there. It has fragmented into beads of paper that make their way slowly down the jewelled man's left forefinger and onto the cracked, parched horizon beneath his feet. The t is as necessary as the c is to be nonexistent, as we know that if the girl's heart breaks the land will be consumed by a festering putridity.