Green. And red. Christmas? No. Mud? Yes. Trees? Yes. Blood? Yes.
Braveheart. No. What? Mel Gibson. Where? Not here. Not anymore.
Sing. No. Why not? I can’t. Why? Ursula took it. That bitch. That’s The Little Mermaid. Am I not the little mermaid? No. Oh.
You need shoes. I hate shoes. Your feet are bleeding. Paint the ground. There’s Hunter. When is he? Does it matter? …Not anymore.
…You’re playing. I’m always playing. Your fingers hurt.It doesn’t matter. Your bones are showing. Are you calling me fat? Where are we? I don’t care. How long have we been here? 28 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes, 12 seconds.That’s Donnie Darko. Is it? Yes, you’ve lost track of Time. You’ll sort yourself out. For now.
We should stay here.Yes. It’s peaceful. Yes. It reminds of- Don’t. He would have liked it here. …Yes. Can we go see him? Just once. We can’t see what’s not real. But he is real! If he was real I wouldn’t hurt. If he was real I would be alive. If he was real I wouldn’t be having MOTHERFUCKING CONVERSATION WITH MYSELF SHUT THE FUCK UP STUPID. STUPID STUPID. I HATE YOU.
A petite woman with dark wild hair, tangled and frayed, stood in a tattered and torn sun dress in the middle of the forest that surrounded the northernmost half of The Town. Her irises were unnaturally large and dark and she didn’t seem to notice the bloody footsteps that painted the ground in the circle which she walked. Nor did she take heed of her fingers, which had been worn to the bone, her blood smearing the strings of the fiddle which she played. She had appeared, almost instantaneously, flickering through the Town like a hologram before she wound up in the forest, pacing and playing, disappearing here and reappearing there. The tattoo that showed across her shoulder looked like a painful and ugly blue-green bruise, but still the woman played on.
I really like this person’s lyrics for this tune. It’s frantic, playful, and bittersweet. You can almost picture the ghost playing and talking to herself. :)