07-15-2018, 12:32 AM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]> COURIER SIX | ACCESS FILE: TAGS | ACCESS FILE: missing.link
. . . LOADING THOUGHTS . . . GENERATING DIALOGUE | ACCESS? [confirm]
Most people don't wake up every morning with the goal of figuring out who they are. Perhaps they search for aspects: their purpose in life, what they love, what about themselves they can improve. But most — he's assuming here, but most — people don't wake up and wonder after their own name. Or their home. Or why they own what they own, why they are where they are, or where they will go. When he woke up, he had asked around. Do you know me? What happened? He'd gotten some note about a delivery, a radio that mostly crackled at him, and the same answer every time: I don't know. Each time he hears it, it's a nail to his chest.
Eventually, he picks up and carries on.
The first important thing he learns about himself is the depth of his own endurance. It takes hours of travel for him to tire even the slightest, to the point that he slows to a walk instead of a trot. The ground is hot underneath his paws, but it hardly seems to bother him. There's enough wind to rustle thick fur and keep his face cool, and the second fact he learns about himself is that right now that's all he could ever ask for. So the dog walks, and walks. He follows faint tracks, then fresher ones, then carves his own trail through an area so startling familiar that his mind and heart both ache, but in the end, it's nothing. Just another stretch of the road. The most unsettling part is the emptiness of his thoughts. With nothing to reflect on, the brain is a beautifully blank thing, nothing more than a machine that continues to spin without any input. His seems to concern itself mostly with scenery for now.
As he continues walking, the land underneath hard paws dips, mud reaching almost over the tops of white paws with some steps. The Courier's expression doesn't turn to distaste, but the German Shepherd pauses anyway, as if trying to gauge his own opinion of the territory before him. Wet, shadowed. "Terrible," he finally decides with something of a scoff, and there's fact number three for today: he's not a fan of marshes.
It's a start.
. . . LOADING THOUGHTS . . . GENERATING DIALOGUE | ACCESS? [confirm]
Most people don't wake up every morning with the goal of figuring out who they are. Perhaps they search for aspects: their purpose in life, what they love, what about themselves they can improve. But most — he's assuming here, but most — people don't wake up and wonder after their own name. Or their home. Or why they own what they own, why they are where they are, or where they will go. When he woke up, he had asked around. Do you know me? What happened? He'd gotten some note about a delivery, a radio that mostly crackled at him, and the same answer every time: I don't know. Each time he hears it, it's a nail to his chest.
Eventually, he picks up and carries on.
The first important thing he learns about himself is the depth of his own endurance. It takes hours of travel for him to tire even the slightest, to the point that he slows to a walk instead of a trot. The ground is hot underneath his paws, but it hardly seems to bother him. There's enough wind to rustle thick fur and keep his face cool, and the second fact he learns about himself is that right now that's all he could ever ask for. So the dog walks, and walks. He follows faint tracks, then fresher ones, then carves his own trail through an area so startling familiar that his mind and heart both ache, but in the end, it's nothing. Just another stretch of the road. The most unsettling part is the emptiness of his thoughts. With nothing to reflect on, the brain is a beautifully blank thing, nothing more than a machine that continues to spin without any input. His seems to concern itself mostly with scenery for now.
As he continues walking, the land underneath hard paws dips, mud reaching almost over the tops of white paws with some steps. The Courier's expression doesn't turn to distaste, but the German Shepherd pauses anyway, as if trying to gauge his own opinion of the territory before him. Wet, shadowed. "Terrible," he finally decides with something of a scoff, and there's fact number three for today: he's not a fan of marshes.
It's a start.
[align=center][div style="font-size:15.7pt;line-height:.9;color:#000;font-family:impact;padding:8px;letter-spacing:.7px"]I TOLD MY FRIENDS THAT WE WOULD NEVER PART[div style="font-size:7pt;line-height:1.2;color:#000;font-family:arial;margin-top:2px;margin-bottom:5px;letter-spacing:0px;margin-left:0px;text-align:center;letter-spacing:.0px"]｢ THEY OFTEN SAID THAT YOU WOULD BREAK MY HEART | PINTEREST. INFO. PLAYLIST. ｣