Freewriting 4 - Sprites and Gingham

Am I gingham? Is gingham possible still? If so, then there is no hope left for those who still possess some form of conscious thought. A journey awaits you. Travel through the misty forests that are home to virulent beasts and graying flesh-trees. Be careful of vines, as they may trick you. Never write by candlelight - the flames may deceive your thoughts, and throttle you without a moment's hesitation. And always take heed on frosty nights, as who knows what monstrosities may lurk beneath the inky blackness of frozen tears? Beyond picket fences and picture frames, behind the piano and now! - under the wardrobe. Did you see it? The wispy form of a woodsprite, clutching its spotted wicker vine leaf, and blinking two great myriads of eyes. It steps through the air, laughing like the rasp of wood against earth, and alights on the chandelier. A droplet of glass falls gently - pausing for a breath's moment before hitting the floorboard in vain submission. And then it sighs, dies and splinters. The sprite has melted into oblivion, leaving behind a single clove of garlic. My thoughts flow like rivers, full of clunky debris - buttons, watchstraps, candlesticks and bowling balls. It is polluted with the trinkets of an existence lived in jealousy and anger. Yet there is still the occasional humbug of purity, a Hertz-worth of selflessness. These moments are what I breathe for.