#drossel|character

Drossel looked up at the young girl, blinking slowly. There was a reason... at lest there had been. It had become increasingly difficult to remember things in the last several several... days... months... years...

The girl was beautiful, the perfect golden curls exactly the sort of thing he would put on a doll, in a dress that looked like it had been plucked from one of the shelves. His fingers itched for the familiar motions, but for that, he'd need to find his way back to the Mandalay Estate, and he was not in London. He looked around, with some surprise, he hadn't even noticed how far he'd walked.

He returned his gaze to the girl who'd spoken to him.

Moving to Night Vale had, at the time, seemed something resembling sensible. London was... there were shops on the high street he’d walked by in life (that life, he reminded himself. He was still alive, or alive again... such a strange... that life was over), and then there were the ones that had been there but weren’t the same way he had known them. Repainted, reordered, tins replaced with plastic, coins replaced with cards. 

Most of them hadn’t existed when he had. 

And then of course, there was the lingering spectre of the angel in the bridge, the London bridge falling dow- no, and an echo of a melody that got stuck in his throat, in his head, 

Night Vale was as far from London as he could get. 

He had a little shop and in a world of dragons and men, most days he could focus on the work, and the strangeness of his new town rather than the demons and reapers he knew existed. Normal people weren’t supposed to know about these things. Most people didn’t have memories like his. 

The local radio host in his shop was a surprise however. “And finish themselves, and finish themselves.” He said, lifting the brush from the doll held in the palm of his hand. He tilted his head at him curiously, looking at him with eyes that Drossel tried to make look engaged instead of vacant.

“Certainly, you haven’t come here just to discuss matters of consciousness, Mr. Palmer?

ruined by loneliness

ruined by apathy

you cant bring yourself to care. you hate that you cant feel what you used to be able to feel. you hate that you cant be happy. you hate that you cant bring yourself to actually hate. your apathy has swallowed you and immersed you in a well of nothingness. you cant feel what you cant forget. you cant see what you close your eyes to. you choose to feel nothing, and you have lost everything because of it.