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