Summers in the mountains surrounded by towering pine trees where the days are long, the nights are warm, and the moon's bright enough to read by and cast shadows. Really, it's little less than a blue sun, crisping the air and showing off the stars that look like someone spilled glitter over dark blue velvet.
Hmm... it sounds like some sort of virus or something and the polic have to evacute London. Either that or someone has some pretty cool ideas for future London. =P
An old Egyptian god that's a cobra and spends all their time in baskets. You'll never know if it's there though, because it can go right through the basket's walls.
Gansta Cat
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.