The mris confirmed it; off to the intuition she must go.

She left behind her silvery, slippery fish pond; source of her strength and will.

Her brain became a rusted steam-punk collage of cogs and gears.

Within the sepia structured walls, she lacked the intellectual nuance to oil them.

She spoke only the same phrase: “She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, not up close.”

Saying Terry Pratchett dictated it to her; whispered it’s meaning in her ears at night.

More mris; into a solitary room without adornment. She was a danger. To whom or what, only she and Terry knew.

SOC based on instant response visions of the collage 39, mlmm Sunday prompt 240.

* “The good composed of all goods; an ability which suffices for living well; perfection in respect of virtue; resources sufficient for a living creature.” Attributed to Plato. Often defined as “a state of happiness” Wikipedia

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