stream of consciousness v. woolf in sheep's clothing

Lucy lucid met the luxury of leisure after it leapt languid on her ligaments, after it ground her bones by lulling her into a worthless, workless weakening by want of hardship. She clawed imperfections into the mirror as this idyllic idleness began to wear thin, a cloak of curiosity that could not be satisfied on some token whim, or replaced by some colourful distraction paid for by old money in pampered accounts. 
        
         Corrupted company stained her and the clouds that were weighed down by heavy grey paint seeped through loosely locked doors, and engulfed the gentle stream of thought that she believed to have all but dried up in an emotional drought, parched by the dust gathering on her tear-ducts. 
          Thorns tiptoed along her pricked ears after navigating smooth islands of pooled skin. She was delicately dangerous and susceptible to the influence of brutally rude hallmarks so often carved in coarse conversation.
          The shadow of an honest promise bleeds like plastic pearls, two pretty people wearing wedding bands made of rust. Their date set and their decadence designed to dance like the ghost of a deity, to hide the rotten underbelly of the resignation they so readily wrote out their titles on. Their morals surrendered on the Monday, the Tuesday took their trust to tailor an armoured wickedness for Wednesday, which dies away as the week sneaks along the cascading cliff of an unsung pretty cheek. A kiss of firm fire that basks in the warmth of a slumber until it is weaved into waking by a web of feckless Friday’s abandon. 
           No small surprise then that the door swings, betrayed by decaying hinges that stare inwards; a greenhouse with broken windows sprouting plants through the gaps, grown from seeds of wealth and woe watered by droplets of malice. Ah wealth and woe, those fickle friends who sing heretic hymns and cry with smiles made of snow, their sounds and looks dictated by the trappings of freedom and directionless doom, a metallic taste that leaves a wanting in wandering, a longing in life and a consuming confusion that is all encompassed in lacking a compass. The lace that lies in a pretty lattice is stained, indulgent ivory that is soiled by soured grapes. 
          This is a disease that seduces the gentle windows of opportunity; it gifts them with a view of their own and curses them by withholding the words that would voice their opinion.