Musings of a Wandering Stitcher

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bitches be sucking farts there

something tells me Skunks Georg

"This doesn't make any sense, why would he ever-" my man hasn't stumbled onto a thought in years

Got bored and stopped listening

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and then he is confronted with the fact that among the visages of the people she has met so far, he is in every one of them. that, more often than not, her dreams are simply images of his eyes while he looks to the sky, or the way his ears catch the sunlight on the plain, or the movement of his hands when casting a spell, all surrounded by echoes of his words, his voice poignant and precise. beautiful recreations of moments stolen when he wasnt paying attention, each one more reverent than the last. a creature that has discovered escaping to the Fade in their sleep for the first time, having the opportunity to explore its rich environments and histories, and yet she is content merely to bask in the memories of him.

A stubborn little Crow

if the world was ending id want to be next to you

Both are beautiful forms of writing.

magnificent creatures, the lot of you