#withafury

Ah, yes. With but hazy mindfulness, he recalls the peculiar sentiment. ( What is it? You hungry? ) An offering to a stranger, no less, to the walking dead. And perhaps he should feel scorn, to have been so condescended to, or disparage such insipidly idyllic fancy, but rather he greets it with bemusement: an emotion he has become all too familiar with, in merely having met Nero. A stiff laugh escapes him.

      “ I don't think that wise. ”

Foolish, maybe; unattainable, even more so. The thought bodes poorly in the depths of his chest, and he elects not to dwell upon how long it had been since he had known the warmth of a 'family dinner' ( twenty nine years, seven months ), nor what he would gain in accepting ( an ultimately doomed attempt at a connection ); instead, he looks at a boy who is and is not his, and then looks past him. You will only find your own discontent here, he thinks to say, but it's relinquished as, “ I mustn't linger. ------ Nor should you. ”

       “ I desire no further context in regard to the topic of ‘poetry - fucking’, Nero. ”