[that is a sentiment mike can get behind. and he proves the statement by slowly turning - no, not enough to look that shit in the face - forget that. (and. the lady said no looking.) but his middle finger is a beacon of its own, and if the light is drawn to it in some inexplicable way, well, he can get behind that, too.
oh, there are ghosts he would very much like to see - but she's not on whatever's coming, whatever's causing woe's face to contort, to use her breath to proclaim that hatred - the same thing that's squeezing his own chest, meting out irregular beats of an overused muscle (or underused, to hear him tell it, but those tales are lies) and lodging in his throat. he's been saying this without saying it for years, and it's almost a relief to spit it out just now.]
Amen to that.
Fuck ghosts.
[fuck ships on some level, too. but that's an issue of a different (light) color. fact is, she'd stood between him and something - and she's got the bleeding ears to prove it. oh, this place likes to make them bleed - it's all blood and blood and more blood, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.
but the sense of immiment action has mostly passed - it's no longer do or die (due or die?) and the floral stink is just a smell without the susurrus of dead dread to power it up. the walls are a grim spatter in the new lamplight, but they feel more like walls and less like...
(no)
still, nothing about this place feels good.
a nod, and a flicker of concern and a tap at his own ears, a slow enunciation in case she can't hear - he keeps his voice low.]
Your ears.
[he can't know what it's like for her, but he's ready to help her descend, should she need a steady hand or step. well, will you look at that.]
no subject
oh, there are ghosts he would very much like to see - but she's not on whatever's coming, whatever's causing woe's face to contort, to use her breath to proclaim that hatred - the same thing that's squeezing his own chest, meting out irregular beats of an overused muscle (or underused, to hear him tell it, but those tales are lies) and lodging in his throat. he's been saying this without saying it for years, and it's almost a relief to spit it out just now.]
Amen to that.
Fuck ghosts.
[fuck ships on some level, too. but that's an issue of a different (light) color. fact is, she'd stood between him and something - and she's got the bleeding ears to prove it. oh, this place likes to make them bleed - it's all blood and blood and more blood, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.
but the sense of immiment action has mostly passed - it's no longer do or die (due or die?) and the floral stink is just a smell without the susurrus of dead dread to power it up. the walls are a grim spatter in the new lamplight, but they feel more like walls and less like...
(no)
still, nothing about this place feels good.
a nod, and a flicker of concern and a tap at his own ears, a slow enunciation in case she can't hear - he keeps his voice low.]
Your ears.
[he can't know what it's like for her, but he's ready to help her descend, should she need a steady hand or step. well, will you look at that.]