❝ BYRNE . . . AXEL. ❞ voice is quiet, he might as well be speaking to a grave, but the silence of the sterile grounds is almost stifling. the brain scan had felt like a surrender to instability, and when it’d yielded nothing, he’s indulging now in what he would perhaps ordinarily call DERISION. a bloody sleep clinic.
it’s not insomnia that GNAWS its way visceral beneath his skin, barbed and unwavering, after a particularly unsettling dream. it’s an insipid unwillingness to let his mind wander, to maintain the control he’s wound himself around so TIGHTLY. it is derision, being here — DESIRE: derision.
silver shades are withdrawn, when he drops into the low pleather seats, pulling out talking points for the next day’s show. contraband. if he fears the judgement of the only other soul in that sitting area, it doesn’t show. //. @ambroseraven
