#wingtorne

the world outside is cacophonous ; at war with itself as rain pours down in ice-cold sheets accompanied by the near-constant roaring of heavy thunder & the occasional flash of white-hot lightning. the world is a piteous sinner crying out for salvation, but the being inside the darkened apartment seems not to notice. though the only light visible is that from the street-lamps below & the lightning that haphazardly illuminates the sky in a brilliant white, a book is held in their hand & they are absorbed in it as if the darkness isn’t even an issue. they’ve read it before, of course - after all this time there is very little they have not read, contentious literature included, perhaps even sought out - but still they do not stir as the world continues to rage on. sneakered feet seem barely to touch ground as they lean ever so lightly against doorframe, the sound of intermittent turning of cream-white pages lost in the noise of outside. it has been this way for several hours, but it’s only when they hear another noise that they shift slightly, putting more weight onto the shoulder that rests against the doorframe.