The roof, Friday evening

[nadiathesaint]

Nadia had had about enough of the snow and was hanging out on the roof instead wearing a cotton poncho from home.

Guess what she was doing. No, seriously, guess.

Here's a hit. She had her guitar. . . .

There is fiction in the space between
The lines on your page of memories
Write it down but it doesn't mean
You're not just telling stories

There is fiction in the space between
You and reality
You will do and say anything
To make your everyday life
Seem less mundane
There is fiction in the space between
You and me

There's a science fiction in the space between
You and me
A fabrication of a grand scheme
Where I am the scary monster
I eat the city and as I leave the scene
In my spaceship I am laughing
In your remembrance of your bad dream
There's no one but you standing

Leave the pity and the blame
For the ones who do not speak
You write the words to get respect and compassion
And for posterity
You write the words and make believe
There is truth in the space between

There is fiction in the space between
You and everybody
Give us all what we need
Give us one more sad sordid story
But in the fiction of the space between
Sometimes a lie is the best thing
Sometimes a lie is the best thing

She continued to pluck the rhythm of the song on the guitar as she stared out over the town.

[ooc: open to others fleeing the snow. Hopefully I'll be fleeing work, soon. . . .]