[ Subaru likes to be moving. His apartment in Shinjuku felt like a matter of formality at many points — a place for his phone he never answered, for his work contracts to gather in the formalized net of his answering machine. Bereft of life, wreathed in smoke, perforated by the city's lights through half-drawn curtains. There were so few things he was attached to there, all of them preserved by memory.
He hasn't much had the heart to call anyplace home in this city, either. But he's dutiful and the tether thrums with the soft stability of his answer: ]
no subject
He hasn't much had the heart to call anyplace home in this city, either. But he's dutiful and the tether thrums with the soft stability of his answer: ]
No, I'm not. Is everything alright?