08-15-2018, 01:41 AM
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With luxury, you always wanted more. Whether it was subtle, or a need so cloying people couldn't get their minds off it, it didn't matter if you were already at the top; there was an innate greed in people that kept the lid off, possessions and wealth a bottomless well you just kept feeding, something that had to be fed. It was the same for whatever necessitated wanting, honestly. There was never enough.
But the scale was different between people. People fed with silver spoons naturally had their own way of thinking about what power was. Sometimes they learned to think differently; adaptation was a trait written into living, right next to sleeping and breathing. Sometimes they didn't learn, or adaptation went the other way - sometimes little children retained the things they'd been methodically fed until adulthood and grew up to be merciless killers with little emotional reasoning, and that was just what life was.
(Rialto was working a little bit on his poetry, you see. That was it. He didn't quite have rhythm yet, nor a spectacular vocabulary, but you know, an artist's mind was a hailstorm. A hailstorm where the chunks of ice were scattered ideas and the people running screaming for shelter were the trains of thought not yet ridden, but soon to be taken. Ugh. His mind. Now that was poetic. He had conceptual thinking down pat.)
Initially, the sign denoting San Creado's claim had been an ugly, chipped, spraypainted thing, so he'd taken it upon himself not a few days ago - having his artist mind - to redecorate. Introduce some colour to the bleary backdrop of stained wood and the ashy buildings with stripped paint. Did it work? Please tell him it worked. That evening he was toting one of his newer ideas, a tiny skateboard with a rectangular indent for one's phone to slot into, but remote-controlled (albeit with no batteries, nor an actual remote), when he saw a stranger. They walked with weight, but in only a few steps one could determine that the actual man's steps were light; planted with precision, like a panther, sheathed swords jutting into air.
Like a shark's fin. Another attempt at poetry.
Rialto neatly dropped the miniature skateboard to the ground, where it rattled slightly and started rolling off, as he approached, a hand up to lazily scratch his head. "That's how it is," he agreed, voice pleasant. He cut a fine contrast to the stranger, considering he was wearing flipflops and a bathrobe. "You don't mind a tiny bag inspection, do you?"
But the scale was different between people. People fed with silver spoons naturally had their own way of thinking about what power was. Sometimes they learned to think differently; adaptation was a trait written into living, right next to sleeping and breathing. Sometimes they didn't learn, or adaptation went the other way - sometimes little children retained the things they'd been methodically fed until adulthood and grew up to be merciless killers with little emotional reasoning, and that was just what life was.
(Rialto was working a little bit on his poetry, you see. That was it. He didn't quite have rhythm yet, nor a spectacular vocabulary, but you know, an artist's mind was a hailstorm. A hailstorm where the chunks of ice were scattered ideas and the people running screaming for shelter were the trains of thought not yet ridden, but soon to be taken. Ugh. His mind. Now that was poetic. He had conceptual thinking down pat.)
Initially, the sign denoting San Creado's claim had been an ugly, chipped, spraypainted thing, so he'd taken it upon himself not a few days ago - having his artist mind - to redecorate. Introduce some colour to the bleary backdrop of stained wood and the ashy buildings with stripped paint. Did it work? Please tell him it worked. That evening he was toting one of his newer ideas, a tiny skateboard with a rectangular indent for one's phone to slot into, but remote-controlled (albeit with no batteries, nor an actual remote), when he saw a stranger. They walked with weight, but in only a few steps one could determine that the actual man's steps were light; planted with precision, like a panther, sheathed swords jutting into air.
Like a shark's fin. Another attempt at poetry.
Rialto neatly dropped the miniature skateboard to the ground, where it rattled slightly and started rolling off, as he approached, a hand up to lazily scratch his head. "That's how it is," he agreed, voice pleasant. He cut a fine contrast to the stranger, considering he was wearing flipflops and a bathrobe. "You don't mind a tiny bag inspection, do you?"
© MADI
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