Scissors

When the present presents whatever presents it has for you in unseeming wrappers, holding yourself back from beholding their content is letting the past hold you back while the present flies past.
Longed for the past for long enough.
If the past lets you fly now, then I'll pass you a pair of scissors so you can cut and unfold the wrappers holding your present.

Song

Singing is simple. It is done by opening one's mouth and producing sounds as one would do to speak, only with a different tune. Some songs have lines whose syllables need to be emphasised at other points than the ones at which the tune permits. These lines of lyrics can be irritating.
It is possible to sing sounds in a foreign language without knowing what they mean. Humans come with a tune memory in the default version and all it takes to activate this tune memory is a good amount of listening experience, preferably at an early age. If humans come without this tune memory they may not mind it because they cannot sense when they are singing off key. However, other humans around them are likely to know.
Singing is an expression of uninhibitedness. Humans who do not feel comfortable in their bodies usually do not feel free to sing and dance in front of others,either.

Slumber

The sun's rays are dancing on the wall outside the window. They trace lines along the bricks in the wall and cast gentle shadows along the edges of the creeper vine. Birds twitter and beckon the sleeping souls out onto the street. Soon the light is drenching the road, bathing the landscape in colours it has not seen for weeks.

A girl lies on her bed in this street, awake. Her skin has breathed the air of the dawn. She does not have a mirror but she knows that today something is unusual. She has to go out and meet them. They are out there waiting for her and they are armed. All she has are her two feet and her conversation, and with these she supposes she will accompany them. She is not coming back. She rises from her bed and splashes water on her face. Her white gown ripples down to her knees and her hair flows down her shoulders. There is a beat of music as she leaves her doorstep to depart. There is no lock on her front door and she leaves it open.

The dark tar under her slippers feels like rubber and her feet are like springs as she skips down to the kissing-gate leading to the sidewalk. Nobody is there yet. She can look around once more and her eyes drink the blue sky. The air is thick with the fragrance of grass and flowers. There is water flowing nearby in the river. Sudenly sleep is overcoming her again. There is soft shade under the clump of trees across. Green grass welcomes her to lie down and enjoy her slumber.

While she slumbers, the years pass. The grass grows warmer and warmer, then colder and colder and freezes over. Snow covers her face while she sleeps. Little children play on the gentle slopes of the lawn and ducks and other birds waddle along the river bank.