Spoken-Like-Artists

Her toes caress the soil as she walks, seeping deep inside the mush like earthworms. "I don't understand," she says to no one but the trees- or rather, who they miss, "why you love red so much." Her hands stimulate the bark as she rubs it, smooth and teeming with life. Petals pirouette on the breeze and decorate her dark hair. "It is, after all, a very harsh color," she continues. "Stagnant. Most people think of blood when they think of it." Halting amidst the array of swishing leaves and fruits, a gray stone glares at her from the floor. "Mockery," she snickers, pointing a finger at it. "Must you do it even in death?" She sighs, turning aw