[ Laughter, viscera, motes catching on fluorescent liminality. It does strike him from time to time, when he catches himself noticing the small details: the sick shine of blood on the thinness of his eyelids. The improbability. ]
You'd prefer it. [ A certainty with the cadence of a hope. His thumb eases on the tactile scratch of the sparkwheel, cutting the flame before its halo illuminates too much. When noticing becomes too much. Only when it's gone does he lower his hand. ] That I dislike it.
no subject
You'd prefer it. [ A certainty with the cadence of a hope. His thumb eases on the tactile scratch of the sparkwheel, cutting the flame before its halo illuminates too much. When noticing becomes too much. Only when it's gone does he lower his hand. ] That I dislike it.