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taintxdrose liked your post:[ PLEASE LIKE THIS IF YOU WANT A SHORT STARTER ]
He knows that face. How could he not? There's little a soul that wouldn't. He sees his own in there. The smile he smiles is tired when he, cigarettes, sweets, and batteries in hand, steps aside to let her, carrying a single drink, one spot ahead of him in the small queue before the cash register. " .. Would you like to? "
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The whole concept was beyond him, but the outcome very clear. " .. sou ka. " He was not posing her any question -- he bleakly wondered nothing to himself as he took off his glasses and clipped them to his collar, only cleaning out his closed eyed with a rub of thumb and index finger of his left spread hand. They could not do nothing. He was not sure what it implied. She answered that. Her abiding by the rules was met with breathing silence, only broken by a creak when he'd let quiet seconds tick. He was farsighted. Closing in, raised to his knees in a quiet hover, he could not see well what he was doing. Mistakes were easier to distort to simple ignorance when they were a blur in mind and eye.
Though he has no other soul to use it for, he spends very little money on himself. There is the occasional exorbitant check for a new pair of shoes ( they’re his weakness, and he can’t help it ), but his bank account is otherwise guarded very frugally and sober.
Cleanly cut flowers are a luxury he permits himself every few days, however. His is a bachelor patch, and they help the place look ever so more slightly kept and lively. They also smell much better than he and his bad habits ever will. He pockets his cigarettes, and then ducks his head lightly as he enters. " … Hello. "
get fluffy!?
[ ★ ]
He is a klutz with crafty fingers. He cannot cook himself a meal without the knife eight times in his thumb and the rice pan boiling over, but, cooked, he could roll it into Totoro or Jigglypuff with ease — any shape his siblings had desired. He never did so well with writing, his pen producing loops too loose and his concentration on a detail too intense for a result final neatly made. But while half his kanji smudged under the dragged side of his hand and their stroke order did not coincide with how dictated, the drawings at the sidelines of his pages were all were clean, made of lines direct from mind to hand as his eye there had imagined it. He’s never held the hand of another very long. His own are not made for it, as they let go or they slip out without it being his intention. They lack the power, or resolve, or ( he’s settled for this answer ) they simply lack the love —but he’s a klutz with crafty fingers, and his hands can still make things.He sleeps until one when he’s home at three o’ clock and then wastes hours getting dressed and dirty with cigarette smoke around house that’s emptied of anything other than the light and the furniture he’s bought throughout the years. He warms his voice against its hoarseness and does not always play piano or guitar or violin, but simply sits about and reads and ears his pages when he can’t bring himself to face the world within a day he’s slept away.He has to wait ‘till evening. He busies himself until the moon comes.She receives much fanmails, in packages and letters. The box is inconspicuous, and without return address to send a signed photo to. The crown inside is delicate, but without the span of life that real flowers would hold. They’d have died to brown and yellow long before they met her head.In the low light of the afternoon by the open window, he holds out his hands and looks at the papercuts upon his fingertips.He’s a klutz with crafty fingers, but not very good at origami.
" Hora hora Shi - chan! -- you can't go outside without your coat, alright? I know it's getting warmer out, but it's just been raining, hasn't it? That's why you had to stay inside, remember? If you get splashed now, you'll surely catch a cold ... Ja, kocchi. See, here's your coat, and here's your galoshes ... I'm not letting you out until you've put those on, okay? " And even then he had half a mind to follow and keep tabs on the boy's puddle - play.
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★ [dances]
Hello, dear child.It is odd we write letters to an address that it will never reach and yet still hope the sound of our emptying hearts rustle the paper hard enough for them to hear it, is it not? Maa, in this case, it would be better should the weeds never whisper to you too loudly, but perhaps I, like Midas, have already dug my own hole in thinking a man confessing softly only to the wind and to himself will have his secret kept.I will miss you. I hope you will fare well. Farewell. May one day Zephyr take you on his wing, gentle and sprightly, and carry you into a new spring where your life is free and undecided by anyone but you. You’d suit to be the West Wind’s wife: she is the rose - feeted, after all, the dancer on the cloud’s lining, and brings color to our skies.
aō, Aoide,* should I still live when you bring the waking of that day.
風雅名音 **
" Ah -- here you go. " Formerly tiptoed, he holds out the high - up bottle of Miyoshi to the other that seemed to have been reaching for it. He himself had his eyes on a different bottle of laundry detergent, set upon a lower shelf, but aiding those short and suffering only took a second of his time. " -- that was the one you wanted, right? "
