Rooted to the place you sprang from...
On the beach, Eden's chasing birds. She's running around with bare feet and Alice helped her roll up the cuffs on the camos she found, and she's got a khaki coloured t-shirt and a jacket discarded near-by and the clothes box even gave her a cap and a plastic gun. When Eden was nine years old, she hadn't done much playing. There hadn't been muc chance. She'd started smoking when she was nine. She'd broken a boy's nose that year, when he teased her about her eye. She'd never really had time to be a kid, so it makes perfect sense that now she's thirty-two, in a nine year old body, and she's running around like a bloody mad thing.
The white birds gather a little way down the beach, and Eden drops down, stalking them with her little plastic gun in her hands. She's forgotten how ridiculous she must look. She's just having fun.
It really is a bloody novelty.
The white birds gather a little way down the beach, and Eden drops down, stalking them with her little plastic gun in her hands. She's forgotten how ridiculous she must look. She's just having fun.
It really is a bloody novelty.