Her life was nothing more than a re-run of nightmares and not-so subtle pangs of panic. 

She dreamt that everything went up shit creek, that places that should have been wonderful weren't, and objects that should have been beautiful were more wrong than real. 

So she banged her head with the flat palm of her hand.

Which helped not a bit.  Just as she knew it wouldn't. 

When her hair naturally curls it makes her feel whimsical.

i would like to have breakfast with you.

following a night of intimate entanglement on fresh white sheets.

a single brown gerbera sitting prettily in a milk bottle.

the gentle sea breeze playfully caressing the curtains at the open window.

sid vicious gazing down upon the scene, a faint smirk of gentle humour on his black and white glossy face.

un-vicious.

pachelbel lingering in our ears.

a car hooting its horn.

viciously.

later we might walk along the promenade.

eat candy-floss.

run barefoot from flirtatious waves.

lie giggling on the october sand.

watch the world go by.

invisibly.

curiously.

but first.

i would just like to have breakfast with you.