Oh my, t'is a wild feather. Let us delve deeper into the mind set of it by asking some questions. How's life Feather?
Dumb. School is dumb. All these assignments I have due are dumb. On the dumb side, I made the tennis team.
You think I haven't noticed you? Just because I've been lurking in the shadows? All the more reason to see you.
Shuddup. You and your reasonings, and people wonder why I-… Sorry, can't think of a word to go there…
How am I doing so far...? Feather lay still on his bed. Through the gap in the curtains covering the glass wall, he could see the sun making it's routinely descent. The sky was alight with color, the clouds turning violent shades of orange, purple, grey, black, red, yellow, and blue. All the colors together proved to be disorienting, and he turned away. The sky is so ugly, He quietly told himself. With a sigh of defeat he climbed out of bed. The moment his bare feet touched the floor, he froze. The wood beneath them was unnaturally cold, even for spring time. Before walking any further, he slipped his feet into his spare pair of slippers, these ones made of a combination of cotton and silk. He finally made his way over to the wall, tugging the curtains closed. Instantly, the room was thrust into a twilight. On his way back to bed he narrowly avoided stepping on his most recent guest. Through the darkness, Feather watched her crawl around on the floor. She was obviously a voluptuous woman, her body thick but not fat. She looked like she regularly indulged in the delicate foods her native people consumed, the skin on her face flawless.
Feather.. You're so weird. Your writing's oddly poetic, and it borders on purple prose. It's not even your vocabulary, but the way you write is very elegant. Classy, I must say. But your actual storyline doesn't seem to fit with your style, if you know what I mean. I can't quite put my finger on what it is.