SUCH A SADNESS: EVERYTHING TRYING TO / BREAK THROUGH INTO / BLOSSOM. / EVERY DAY SHOULD BE A MIRACLE INSTEAD / OF A MACHINATION.
☙❧
The sun is setting, and the air smells like salt, but in a good way. In the best way.
I have been here since late autumn, but, I think, as I settle down into the crisp, bright green grass clinging precariously to the dark and jagged rocks of the cliff, that I still have not gotten used to waking up and seeing the sea. Most days I blink the sleep out of my eyes in the morning and I still expect to smell cinnamon and woodsmoke and drying herbs, not Elena’s flowers and the salt water. I hear the rhythm of wind and I expect the sound of it through branches, not crashing against the coast. Most days, when I step out onto the beach and look out across the sea, I still feel like it is my first time seeing it, really seeing it.
I ruffle my feathers, settling my wings in comfortably at my sides, and I swirl my drink in front of me, observing the way that the dying sunlight refracts through its pale center. I have picked a glass decorated with red petals, which match half of the blooms that compose the woven crown (half-wilted and crooked from a day of frolicking) on my forehead, but I’ve barely drunk any of it yet, because the evening has only just begun, and I don’t want to waste a single good thing. I am trying to savor every moment of the festival, which seems to me to be as much of a commemoration of spring as it is of my first spring.
I take a sip of my drink. It slides down my throat, honey-sweet and easy, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath of sea salt and flowers. Almost immediately, I think better of it and snap them open again, because I do not want to miss a single moment of the sunset, which is painting the horizon lush violet, run through with ribbons of orange like the outer layers of a fire or the rich skin of a peach.
I don’t know what possesses me, exactly, to go looking for company. Maybe it is because I’ve had a few sips of my drink by then, which is enough to make, I’d think, any strange girl in a mostly-strange land long for a friendly face; maybe it is because the sunset is terribly lovely, and I’d like to share it; or maybe, and this is most likely, it is because we are at a festival, and no one should attend a festival alone. At any rate, when I catch sight of a man who is alone, his meld of orange and charcoal feathers in many ways vaguely reminiscent of my own, I trot up to him with a spring in my step, glass hovering a few feet away from my face. “Would you like,” I ask, smiling at him hopefully, “to watch the sunset with me?”
(I think that I’ve seen him in Terrastella, before – and this is as good a time as any, I think, to meet more of Dusk’s citizens.)
@Hugo || <3 || charles bukowski, "fingernails; nostrils; shoelaces"
Speech
☙❧
The sun is setting, and the air smells like salt, but in a good way. In the best way.
I have been here since late autumn, but, I think, as I settle down into the crisp, bright green grass clinging precariously to the dark and jagged rocks of the cliff, that I still have not gotten used to waking up and seeing the sea. Most days I blink the sleep out of my eyes in the morning and I still expect to smell cinnamon and woodsmoke and drying herbs, not Elena’s flowers and the salt water. I hear the rhythm of wind and I expect the sound of it through branches, not crashing against the coast. Most days, when I step out onto the beach and look out across the sea, I still feel like it is my first time seeing it, really seeing it.
I ruffle my feathers, settling my wings in comfortably at my sides, and I swirl my drink in front of me, observing the way that the dying sunlight refracts through its pale center. I have picked a glass decorated with red petals, which match half of the blooms that compose the woven crown (half-wilted and crooked from a day of frolicking) on my forehead, but I’ve barely drunk any of it yet, because the evening has only just begun, and I don’t want to waste a single good thing. I am trying to savor every moment of the festival, which seems to me to be as much of a commemoration of spring as it is of my first spring.
I take a sip of my drink. It slides down my throat, honey-sweet and easy, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath of sea salt and flowers. Almost immediately, I think better of it and snap them open again, because I do not want to miss a single moment of the sunset, which is painting the horizon lush violet, run through with ribbons of orange like the outer layers of a fire or the rich skin of a peach.
I don’t know what possesses me, exactly, to go looking for company. Maybe it is because I’ve had a few sips of my drink by then, which is enough to make, I’d think, any strange girl in a mostly-strange land long for a friendly face; maybe it is because the sunset is terribly lovely, and I’d like to share it; or maybe, and this is most likely, it is because we are at a festival, and no one should attend a festival alone. At any rate, when I catch sight of a man who is alone, his meld of orange and charcoal feathers in many ways vaguely reminiscent of my own, I trot up to him with a spring in my step, glass hovering a few feet away from my face. “Would you like,” I ask, smiling at him hopefully, “to watch the sunset with me?”
(I think that I’ve seen him in Terrastella, before – and this is as good a time as any, I think, to meet more of Dusk’s citizens.)
@
Speech
EVERYTHING IS RISK, SHE WHISPERED.if you doubt, it becomes sand trickling through skeletal fingers.☙❧please tag Nic! contact is encouraged, short of violence
