The sunshine was nearly as sweet as the citrus flesh that burst between her teeth. Robin nimbly skinned another orange slice, a buoyancy arising within her that went unhindered by any superficial detail, such as the pulpy blood which dried on her knuckles, or the filmy skins between her teeth. A reassured bliss, one convinced that it could not be blemished. Her euphoria bled from a pool of harmony so deeply attuned within her that it could hardly be brushed by a physical hand.
It was sweet, so sweet. Her heart sang through its pipes, synthesizing to the songs which ghosted by in the bulleting cars that carried them. Each one crooned to her, every mournful chord resonated within her chest. They were hers. The world itself was suddenly hers, or so she thought.
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