[ A stray thought escapes from a holding pen that swarms with them, falls across her awareness like a meteor: we ought to see about replacing all our junior attaches with ones like this, petty, mean-spirited efficiencies whirling in her mind like over-tooled clockwork.
She closes her eyes. Her face is serene and indifferent, a funeral mask carved by a technically precise but unfeeling hand. ]
no subject
She closes her eyes. Her face is serene and indifferent, a funeral mask carved by a technically precise but unfeeling hand. ]
I am the Saint of Woe.
Your service does not go unnoticed.