Looking outside in a really boring school lesson, saw some bricks, experimented by writing about them, came home and got this. Extremely random, no? Well, here you are. Read and review, thank you very much. Sorry for any typos.
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The bricks lay speckled with a light dusting of cinnamon, vermillion and amber, worn with time and foolish antics. And one by one they created a foundation of dreams and fairytale stories that could be related too, sewed together over the seasons with cements of affliction and reminiscence.
Edward was Winry's base; she built her present time and future over the spoiled bricks he had left - the life he was abandoned and left to decay before he moved on into the vastness of tomorrow. The soil was rough, but she had rooted deep, digging for warmth and security, in panic that he was forever lost, scars shiny and raw and new even now against her pale complexion.
And does that make your soul purer, Edward, for leaving, or is it stained with the fear and sin you're feeling in your dreams, when you are most open to yourself, tussling your bedspread with messy flax hair and arms flailing for some sense of this reality we are given no clues on how to grasp?
I suspect some of your bricks have always been missing, and your cool composure does not give away the fact that you are hardly standing straight, your dreams being balanced on a few vague bricks, threatening to spill like the corals of a setting sun.
You've deferred the intentions of rebuilding your supporting substructure, put it behind you like your past and yet still show no objective of faltering on your route to the stone.
Meanwhile Winry shall keep using you as a framework for her lifestyle, the bricks that remind her of her principles and faith in humanity.