Dream dream twitter, the sparklies of look where what huh that noise. Light, little light it's all red open oh gosh the day has passed! Aye...eyes groggy and resting this birdly twittering of the Gods "la-yee-yah" I hear it cannot tune out the back of my mind...ugh...

...

Eyes watery bones ache for sleep but a twitch a twitter in my body I cannot go back to sleep I must awaken for what what to do...beasts AHH the flush of heat it is too hot hear on the soil but my hooves seem frostbitten and I hunger ache. Think no n...

Taint struggles to ache upwards. Her mind spirals out of control, the leaf swirling to the windless day with no desire but to fall again, but alas, Taint is not a leaf, and must rise up to feed herself and water her deerish maw. Water drips and she wipes it off on her breast, which furrily soaks up the droplets. She looks out.

The hours pass in a moment and she cannot think, every moment is eternal and it is nothing, and no webs can be weaved nor may prey be caught. She is dangling at the strings of the resting inertia, the sleep that is a cloak, a veil, that prevents her from awakening in a spazz and a flurry such as Pingüino. Taint isn't Taint at this time, she is just.

That is it. Just.

It is the same every morning. For she, she is just accepting her taint, because you cannot fight what you cannot realize you can fight at the time. She is a zombie from her awakening and never knows how she is, how she'll act, and she isn't herself.

And at last, the hours past, and she grasps her thoughts.

The Painted Lady is -not- a morning flutter...

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I tried to write "stream of consciousness" for the colored parts. It's a writing style I learned in English class, and it drives me mad.

But really...blah. I'm not a morning person. I'm groggy as hell in the morning and out of my mind. I still kind-of am. *yawns*...I'm such a zombie at awakening. If only the same was true for going to sleep...my mind wakes up at the worst of times.