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.alive.

just a deer, a fawn.

.just one of the mass

is adorned with poppies, the grasses of which are tied to form intricate laces.

?who ties them

long legs, runs and runs.

.won't stop for you

detatched. looks at you, without looking at you.

.figments, every one one of you

.figments.

thank you, Kaoori.

Foreer.

I can imagine it.

I can imagine her, a pristine white coat with markings, a smudge down her nose, underneath her eyes, across her back, the fronts of her legs, and her hooves- as deep as it is brilliant, a royal blue, deeper than the sky at twilight. How? How? That I do not know.

I wander... What was it? What is it!

A small thing she is, no horns, never will be. No mask, she does not need it, it would obscure her view of nature she would say.

I can see.

I see her curled tresses drifting in the breeze as she rests in her favourite places, whether it be near the Twin Gods statues, betwixt a few trees, on nestled among the blossoms of the flowers. Why? Why? That I do not know.

She does not speak. Deer do not speak? Yes, right, but nor does she bellow or buck. Quiet as the drifting of a leaf in a pond, she is still for the most times, waiting. Waiting for what? That I do not know.

When others approach she'll bolt, bolt away! Away! Bolt back! Her hooves dance, Around! Around! Come! Where? That I do not know.

When does she come?

That.

Call for her, she might come.

But you be honest, you be true, for I know not what will happen to you.