writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia

bb_shousetsu

Her voice was the lightest whisper, her touch hardly tangible. Her laughter, light and breathy, was indistinguishable from the wind. So it was he heard and felt the playful sirocco around his face and knew she was near. So close, he almost had her. He inhaled, closed his eyes, slipped out from his place and- she was gone.

He stared where he'd thought she'd be, arrow nocked, dark eyes intent. Days had passed. Weeks. The days were immaterial, the nights as well. All that mattered was the fact that he hadn't done the job. He hadn't caught her. He frowned and pointed his bow downward, gently releasing the tension. She intrigued him. Her senses were heightened. Somehow, she knew he'd been following. Even more surprisingly, she'd given him the slip. No one hid their trails from him once he'd started tracking them.

Except her.