Rebel, rebel, you've torn your dress

I like beautiful melodies telling me terrible things.

To anyone I’ve ever had a failed rp or dropped thread with…

Even as the door creaked wide his attentions focused downward tot he massive pile set silent upon an abused desk, abandoned rings of black coffee and burnt marks from discarded ashes littering the surface that had given birth to his life’s work. One hand splayed flat, fingers stained with the ink of a harsh edits, the other rose, carrying with it the salvation of a pale cigarette of a stress starved mind, “I trust you won’t mind if I smoke.” His tone sounded haggard, even to the professor’s own ears, as he addressed the unseen visitor. 

Emilia kept her head down. The smell of sweet cigarette smoke, faint among the pungent taste of leather and coffee in the back of her throat, thrilled her. All of her favorite things—together. Here. She dared a glance up, she gazed steadily at the sad, downcast face. When he asked her if he could smoke she shook her head, vigorously. 

“Been ‘ere f’r a while; like it very much, thanks.”

“Oh I think you must be mistaken. See, this is no ordinary city, and you might think you know where you are, but I can assure you you aren’t.”

She snorted, "Christ, y're talkin' like y' own th' place," eyeing him she tried to mask all signs of fear, "so y're tryin' t' tell me I think I know where I am--well fuck, I know I do--but I don't really. Alright then, tell me where I am. Show me."