Little Song [Denskith + Richard]

He held his head with the hand previously used as a brush-- or, rather, it just stayed there pensively.  Awkwardly.  "Attachments are . . . what we long to fight for, maybe?  Like friends and ideas and-- and things."  His face flushed slightly, and his hand slipped down from the forehead in defeat.  "And, change with attachments . . .

"My head probably hurts," he admitted with a lop-sided smile, plopping his head down onto the sofa's upper rim.  His arms were still down to his legs, his fingertips just barely wrapped around the lower thighs.  It really did hurt, the head, like someone was playing cymbals with it in the middle.  He continued with a slightly hoarse voice: "I could REALLY use some blood right now."