{I'm obsessed with Coldplay's Paradise. ugh.}
Blythe ran her nails over the rough surface of the bark she had clambered upon, leaving thin slices of light beige on the spots she had peeled the first layer of wood off. She was perched upon a high branch, in a reasonably large tree. The emerald leaves concealed her face and torso, so that if one were to stumble upon the very same tree, they were to spot a pair of bare legs dangling, much like wind-chimes, in the midst of thick, green leaves. She hummed a soft tune under her breath, the bitter thoughts racking her brain slowly making her insides taste sour. She closed her eyes and drew in a shaky breath. She had been in such a condition for several days, and she was yet to acquire the knowledge that would explain her state.Tilting her head backwards, Blythe let the fire that was her hair tumble down her arched back, drinking in the serene atmosphere.
And when did the great Blythe Mortimer begin to appreciate quiet?