[ The really fucked up part is sometimes it does. Art forces things into alignment or at least a bit of sense. It's why he took the time to paint his armor back on Chorus when any old rig would have done. Why he sketches everyone he meets in this place so he knows how he sees them. His memory is faulty. Sometimes, things get lost. And he knows, deep down, that saying that shit - any of that shit - would twist things up, knot the two of them together even more than they already are. They run in parallel tracks. Not all the time, but often enough. It's almost comforting to find someone who understands this shit, who doesn't need it explained.
Almost.
Ephemera chucks his phone at the wall again. This time, he doesn't respond. He's going up to the roof to work on the goddamn mural and chain smoke and forget this conversation ever happened. Like an adult. ]
no subject
Almost.
Ephemera chucks his phone at the wall again. This time, he doesn't respond. He's going up to the roof to work on the goddamn mural and chain smoke and forget this conversation ever happened. Like an adult. ]