10-10-2020, 10:13 PM
[align=center][div style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11.5px; width: 310px; text-align: justify; line-height:120%"]To be still is to welcome thoughts. To welcome them in is to court death once more.
Stilled hands once confident in motion grown secondary nature, memory of muscle enough to conduct craft simple. Perpetual his exhaustion overladen against thoughts clamouring for attention fleeting as it was minimal, sought for a truth grown bitter against his tongue. Once more the twist and curl, against cherry red plane curved tip guided, thin the curls fallen among those already removed. Late grew the hour, where at least one such as he may be concerned as the pale wash of departing afternoon dwindled, lost among rose and orange, weak the light he worked by.
Wandering thoughts threaded against new memory, knuckles dragging along eyes grown heavy, weary in a manner that settled into his bones. He knew her in way words may not encircle, bore within tethered strands, messy in their hold for best out of reach of tiny, grasping hands, ozone and metal, yet upon her skin sparkled brine. Of this place was she set apart, visit morphed and welcomed, what was behind still lingered, however, his mind wreathed in crimson roses when pondered the woman.
Down placed the knife once held in white knuckled grasp, along his work vision travelling. The construct of the box was plain, traded for and repurposed, alongside etched fine vines bearing small leaves. Atop petals opened, the cherry hue of the wood imbued with roses entwined, against fingers running, felt each groove for imperfection. None detected he opened the lid with a trebling touch, thin the cushion nestled on small confinements. A storage for simple trinkets, memories for the youth passing by, the child that had followed at her heels enough to make apparent such may be of use.
Yet the interior was not devoid, craft expert if lacking extravagance, silver star made all the more brilliant for the dark surroundings. She had spoken of knowing him, recognised when his own mind seemed emptied, all he knew written in messy hand. Upward trailed, chilled his own pendent against palm. Evident the excitement that had pertained to passage about such, a custom of people he knew only through the word of a child he supposedly once was, begun a new in a gift that felt fitting.
Careful the manner he deposited the box within overfilled satchel, familiar the weight as worn strap settled against his shoulder, no further distraction halting his neck exit from the tavern quickly grown busy. She had directed him to her lodging once before, on a day when she had acted guide, the words sticking even as they wished to spill forth. Easy the retrace of those steps, quiet the home he stopped before, jarring such for expected the sounds of play, children unabashedly loud in their joy. The thought lingered as Harland lifted a fist, at first a mere flutter against the closed door before he struck it with more surety, a few steps back taken. Necessary this conversation, though one he gravely wished further delayed, better was it upon accepted terms they spoke at the very least.
Stilled hands once confident in motion grown secondary nature, memory of muscle enough to conduct craft simple. Perpetual his exhaustion overladen against thoughts clamouring for attention fleeting as it was minimal, sought for a truth grown bitter against his tongue. Once more the twist and curl, against cherry red plane curved tip guided, thin the curls fallen among those already removed. Late grew the hour, where at least one such as he may be concerned as the pale wash of departing afternoon dwindled, lost among rose and orange, weak the light he worked by.
Wandering thoughts threaded against new memory, knuckles dragging along eyes grown heavy, weary in a manner that settled into his bones. He knew her in way words may not encircle, bore within tethered strands, messy in their hold for best out of reach of tiny, grasping hands, ozone and metal, yet upon her skin sparkled brine. Of this place was she set apart, visit morphed and welcomed, what was behind still lingered, however, his mind wreathed in crimson roses when pondered the woman.
Down placed the knife once held in white knuckled grasp, along his work vision travelling. The construct of the box was plain, traded for and repurposed, alongside etched fine vines bearing small leaves. Atop petals opened, the cherry hue of the wood imbued with roses entwined, against fingers running, felt each groove for imperfection. None detected he opened the lid with a trebling touch, thin the cushion nestled on small confinements. A storage for simple trinkets, memories for the youth passing by, the child that had followed at her heels enough to make apparent such may be of use.
Yet the interior was not devoid, craft expert if lacking extravagance, silver star made all the more brilliant for the dark surroundings. She had spoken of knowing him, recognised when his own mind seemed emptied, all he knew written in messy hand. Upward trailed, chilled his own pendent against palm. Evident the excitement that had pertained to passage about such, a custom of people he knew only through the word of a child he supposedly once was, begun a new in a gift that felt fitting.
Careful the manner he deposited the box within overfilled satchel, familiar the weight as worn strap settled against his shoulder, no further distraction halting his neck exit from the tavern quickly grown busy. She had directed him to her lodging once before, on a day when she had acted guide, the words sticking even as they wished to spill forth. Easy the retrace of those steps, quiet the home he stopped before, jarring such for expected the sounds of play, children unabashedly loud in their joy. The thought lingered as Harland lifted a fist, at first a mere flutter against the closed door before he struck it with more surety, a few steps back taken. Necessary this conversation, though one he gravely wished further delayed, better was it upon accepted terms they spoke at the very least.