09-08-2020, 09:38 PM
THE TACTICIAN
Watch the ceiling fan turn it's shape again
[size=9px]( hybrid ; four months ; typhoon minnow )
My threads are coming loose[/SIZE]
[size=9px]( hybrid ; four months ; typhoon minnow )
My threads are coming loose[/SIZE]
She was only asleep.
Innocent the connotation present within poorly structured comfort, too young any of them to grasp and properly understand the idea of death. The mind warped beneath such instances is no trivial mechanism, the complexities behind working thought tying causation behind understandable action. He was deemed too young to understand death as a concept upon itself and thus the blanks must be filled, mind grasping at straws.
She was asleep.
Broken his own poor sleep, stolen the comfort of closely pressed mothers until a cacoon had become their warmth about him, chased from fitful rest nightmares that plagued. Yet each attempt to seek such was deemed a failure before beginning, barred the room that hung with a veil only the silences proceeding death may give. To his bed did he go, not with intent to sleep but more simply to drown out his thoughts with mindless pursuits, finally lulled as the early hours of morning arose. Had he been awake possibly halted the idiocy of brother, elder only by moments but clung to as though he were more than those separating seconds, dragged him into his own bed where he may forfeit the idea.
Sleep only brings sorrow.
It was not his passage that awoke Harlow, however, but the quiet manner mother opened his door, the only one permitted entry. She did not cross the threshold, rather she lingered for only a moment before other pursuits drew her away. Dry the words that stuck in his throat, a call for her to return he must enact or let her slip away. Clumsy the actions that drew him to where she once stood, shaky upon aching legs, watching with a growing confusion as she departed the hut. Behind did he follow, at a pace she was lost all too soon had not it been for her call, terror a thrown laced bloom winding about his heart.
Sleep had taken Sam and now it wished to take Lovekit.
Useless would he be in such pursuits but about the archepligo did the cub stumble, rasping, dry voice raising at irregular intervals, a hope faux but clung to driving him to such futile actions. "Lo! Lovekit!"
Innocent the connotation present within poorly structured comfort, too young any of them to grasp and properly understand the idea of death. The mind warped beneath such instances is no trivial mechanism, the complexities behind working thought tying causation behind understandable action. He was deemed too young to understand death as a concept upon itself and thus the blanks must be filled, mind grasping at straws.
She was asleep.
Broken his own poor sleep, stolen the comfort of closely pressed mothers until a cacoon had become their warmth about him, chased from fitful rest nightmares that plagued. Yet each attempt to seek such was deemed a failure before beginning, barred the room that hung with a veil only the silences proceeding death may give. To his bed did he go, not with intent to sleep but more simply to drown out his thoughts with mindless pursuits, finally lulled as the early hours of morning arose. Had he been awake possibly halted the idiocy of brother, elder only by moments but clung to as though he were more than those separating seconds, dragged him into his own bed where he may forfeit the idea.
Sleep only brings sorrow.
It was not his passage that awoke Harlow, however, but the quiet manner mother opened his door, the only one permitted entry. She did not cross the threshold, rather she lingered for only a moment before other pursuits drew her away. Dry the words that stuck in his throat, a call for her to return he must enact or let her slip away. Clumsy the actions that drew him to where she once stood, shaky upon aching legs, watching with a growing confusion as she departed the hut. Behind did he follow, at a pace she was lost all too soon had not it been for her call, terror a thrown laced bloom winding about his heart.
Sleep had taken Sam and now it wished to take Lovekit.
Useless would he be in such pursuits but about the archepligo did the cub stumble, rasping, dry voice raising at irregular intervals, a hope faux but clung to driving him to such futile actions. "Lo! Lovekit!"
code by Reggan