That golden color is no more valuable than a penny, fills each valley as its been for moments while there's nothing to hear out side of her ears other than mother natures breath. For now her discernment is a monster of despair that doesn't lay under her bed. She gazes at her joints while contemplating her lack of courage to remember that the tiger inside of her that lashes against all of the village will not be doing the same to her. The righteous act of stillness is what is motivation to put down what isn't really mine. The shiny pointed sculptures of paper that some know as a tool for creation named scissors, that need to cut inanimate objects, not my vessels containment for natural life. I let myself fill my cup with spirits that I don't drink, but bathe in.