“Hush little baby; don’t say a word.”

Moonlight is cold, silver fire through blue night; it slices in from curtains and windowshades, leaving frigid gashes on the walls and smooth, polished puddles of ice on the floor. It washes the softness and leaves things bare and vulnerable, stark and sharp in contrast.

Babies shouldn’t cry so.

“Well I’ll sing you a lullaby.”

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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