KING?

the imbibed alcohol no longer diluted by the system, he can tell that the inebriation has set in from the manifestations of the influence. the body speaks more than the mouth, but atlas understands the cartography of the latter more than he cares to admit. the contours, sloped as the tongue collided with his own. he reminds himself of the nights they used to accommodate each other’s into the flasked confines. the taste of the substance a touch far too familiar for atlas, moulded against the syllables slurred under the moonlit cloak of the night.

in which it all has become a cycle he cannot escape, the exit wounds have always scar in the lapse of their time; he knows he will be playing the waiting game all over again once this one is over, the interval keeps repeating, repenting itself. the penance has never been enough, the pain lingering with each death, the demise inexcusable in the eye of the mortal… the phoenix. the revival is to be due, again and again and again, and atlas isn’t certain if there’s any ending to this. all he knows is that if this is the last, he wants to make it worthwhile, as always. the heart in him, halfway beating, is syncopated with the incoming ache. still, doesn’t know if this time will be enough for him, for them.

yet, as they stumble out of the bar in vienna, this feels more than just fleeting sentiments. love is an exchange for two, even when it means for him to speak through gritted teeth of memories shared between the two. the rinse, lather, repeat. it is almost like a ritual that only he knows how to perform, the carnage that always carves a hole buries itself too deep in the crux of his chest. and as much as atlas wants to complain, he’d rather be somewhat… grateful for another chance of rebirth for yilin. the calligraphed names still remain the same, atlas wearing the ring engraved with the first date within the century long gone, when the vow was first enunciated. uian. he was still uian when they first came in contact, was it the ming dynasty? atlas chooses to not recall vividly each detail, for to be with yilin is an encounter anew.

and another lifetime it is, as he drives yilin back to the hotel, wondering if this is him stealing something off the universe, the opportunity a pilfered one. after all, wasn’t atlas the one asking for more and more, the inhibition of influence of his entire willingness? he doesn’t know whether it is amoral or not. atypically so, considering how atlas’ compass when it comes to that has always been askew. as the night wilts, he starts questioning everything within how the hours unfolded before them. the drive proffers enough solace to ruminate, but being left with his thoughts at this kind of moment feels the most vulnerable. so, upon arrival in front of their five-starred hotel, he hurries to bring the so-called friend back into yilin’s deluxe room, with yilin half-awake. dragged feet, he lets yilin prop most of his weight onto atlas, an arm around his shoulders. he dismisses any offer of help from the hotel staff, stealing a frame of tacit intimacy with yilin. 

when they finally discards their shoes before they reach the bed, they slump into it. not that there’s any smidgen of lethargy in atlas, but he knows that the influence has passed for yilin that sleep is calling. he sighs, not bothering to return to his own suite, because the both of them comprehend the nature of this time’s implication. lying next to each other, still clad in their branded outfits. fate has a way too risible to understand in placing them together again; never the right time, the right place. in this culture of the beloved, he doesn’t know whether it is appropriate to touch yilin, this lifetime enlightened but he wonders if the gravity of love still remains even after all the memories of them wiped. again, fuck tabula rasa.

the mouth tells no lies, even in the hours spent with the boy whose body he knows like the back of his hand. even in the moments so creased by the weight of cleansed memories, tabula rasa a concept that he’s been familiarised with—painfully so—he keeps altering his mindset into believing that he’s no longer a product of fate. he’s over with, the chrysalis of tales inscribed on the epitaphs far too coloured in the hue of lament. he was a flask of bereavements, again and again and again. the cycle continues... when he thought he was liberated from the shackle of destiny, he saw the man in the peripheral view, catching feeling almost too instantly. the call of the so called ‘soulmate’ something that he’s been attempting to undo, the hands around his throat feel more like a garrotte, but he knows that the moment they start engaging in an interaction, it is a game over for him. this time, as atlas and yilin, they are reunited again in a twisted round of coincidences, the noose tightening around his neck.

no malice is contained; scandals are naught if not the spice to his life. he’s never been truly clean of it even when he’s the last person to be so... known. still, he relishes in the way people gawk at him every single time he passes by, flaunting lavish brands on his being. the unstinted way of carrying himself is one factor of the plenty that propels him into the radar, his instagram account a public view to scrutinise. cares naught about it, for this is a lifetime that he brands as such before he feigns a death, returning to the oblivion. when those he knows now wither, he will reemerge to sustain another life, pretending he isn’t the remnant of atlas lee, but that’s another day’s subject to concerns. for now, he’s encountering a rumour that is more or less a vignette of life, and those who tend to follow him around would be the utmost loyal in stalking his love scandals. this time, with a reporter that happened to ask about last year’s accident involving his so-called ‘friends’. still, while he gave her practically zilch with how much he tends to not bother with such news, some managed to capture their conversation in pictures, now spread like a wildfire throughout the social media. therefore, this meeting. she wants to talk, perhaps, but he understands that this might even add to the flames of this conflagration.

the cacophony that reverberates around him is a constant company to the ennui; in here, the entirety of his anatomy as cloaked by a brand of carnal mortality... and in here, the entirety of his monotony as clasped by the teeth of inverted synergy. he isn’t about to indulge in the common complacencies, as often brandished by those of his true age, the elongated lifespans often leaving them too satisfied with their own states. he isn’t like that, for to resort to that means to comfort the rupture of tedium. he is not one to entertain the stay of such a feeling, and so, seek the trouble he does, this time in the form of eavesdropping too much. after all, with such heightened senses, it has become effortless to do so. thus, the knowledge. sometimes, information that he discards right after being obtained, but this one pertains the person pouring the cocktail before him right now. he hums.

richard siken sentence starters.

quotes are all taken from various poems out of richard siken’s poetry book crush.  feel free to change pronouns/etc if needed.

❝  tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  ❞

❝  tell me we’ll never get used to it.  ❞

❝  there are so many things i’m not allowed to tell you.  ❞

❝  i swallow your heart and it crawls right out of my mouth.  ❞

❝  i want it back now, baby. i want it back.  ❞

❝  i’m sorry. we know how it works. the world is no longer mysterious.  ❞

❝  that’s a nice touch.  ❞

❝  i like him and i want to be like him.  ❞

❝  i’m sure you remember, i was on the phone with you, sweetheart.  ❞

❝  history repeats itself.  ❞

❝  there are many names in history, but none of them are ours.  ❞

❝  you could drown in those eyes.  ❞

❝  but damn if there isn’t anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.  ❞

❝  sorry about the blood in your mouth. i wish it was mine.  ❞

❝  i couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but i wore his jacket for the longest time.  ❞

❝  you wanted happiness, i can’t blame you for that, and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy but tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.  ❞

❝  there is no way to make this story interesting.  ❞

❝  i want to tell you this story without having to confess anything, without having to say that i ran out into the street to prove something.  ❞

❝  tell me we’re dead and i’ll love you even more.  ❞

❝  you will be alone always and then you will die.  ❞

❝  i’m sorry i came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.  ❞

❝  who am i? i’m just a writer. i write things down.  ❞

❝  i take it back.  ❞

❝  here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.  ❞

❝  you still get to be the hero.  ❞

❝  what more do you want?  ❞

❝  love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. it’s like a religion. it’s terrifying.  ❞

❝  no one will ever want to sleep with you.  ❞

❝  you know that recently we have had our difficulties and there are many things i want to ask you.  ❞

❝  you had not expected this.  ❞

❝  walk a mile in my shoes.  ❞

❝  a man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river.  ❞

❝  you are weak and hollow and it doesn’t matter anymore.  ❞

❝  hush, my sweet. these tornadoes are for you.  ❞

❝  that sounds overly valorous.  ❞

❝  do you love yourself?  ❞

❝  i don’t have to answer that.  ❞

❝  you wanted more.  ❞

❝  i had a dream about you.  ❞

❝  there’s nowhere to go. there’s nowhere to go.  ❞

❝  in these dreams it’s always you: the boy in the sweatshirt, the boy on the bridge, the boy who always keeps me from jumping off the bridge.  ❞

❝  will you love me even more when i’m dead?  ❞

❝  you didn’t show up. i kept waiting.  ❞

❝  i swallowed crushed ice pretending it was glass and you’re dead.  ❞

❝  i don’t really blame you for being dead but you can’t have your sweater back.  ❞

❝  you can sleep now, you said. you can sleep now. you said that. i had a dream where you said that. thanks for saying that. you weren’t supposed to.  ❞

❝  hello darling, welcome home.  ❞

❝  please keep him safe.  ❞

❝  i just don’t want to die anymore.  ❞

❝  you want to die for love, you always have.  ❞

❝  you didn’t think you’d feel this way.  ❞

❝  you saved my life. i owe you, i owe you everything.  ❞

❝  please, just for one night, will you lie down next to me, we can leave our clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up.  ❞

❝  you’re all i ever wanted and worth dying for, too.  ❞

❝  drive into that tree, drive off the embankment. ______, make something happen.  ❞

❝  we are not dirty.  ❞

❝  you keep singing along to that song i hate. stop singing.  ❞

❝  here is the sink to wash away the blood.  ❞

❝  this is not harmless. you are not breathing.  ❞

there are lapses between his memories that he does not care to unearth. this might be an exception stemmed from the fact that he is still humane in too many ways, one of which includes the appreciation of beauty as a beholder. and now, appropriation of beauty as an excuse, too.

he typically doesn’t indulge in these menial hours even when he technically paid for it, the clatter of ennui initiating this on top of preserving the sense of ‘normalcy’ that might be the adhesive to his languid personality. as he conforms, attending this pedagogical circumstance, he locates a face that is rather… nostalgic. sitting there, nearby the front row of the english literature class is the boy that he once became too acquainted with back in los angeles. noah. kim? he only recalls the name through the roster call, and when he’s being called, he is painfully aware of the eyes fixated on him after rounds of glances. yes, he understands his own stance. no, he isn’t interested. attention only feeds towards his being vain, but that’s a given. after all, not many would miss the sore sight of pink hair and crooked smiles. perhaps, just perhaps, many of those fleeting sights can also be attributed to his striking features. pretty, many would whisper. again, another easy conundrum in the equation. he does not mind being seen as another subject for show.

still, the epitome of a challenge sits before him, just a few lines under him in the auditorium. not as extravagant in flaunting himself. confidence that does not overflow, charisma that does not oversee. noah is just another form that captures attention, but he is nowhere as conspicuous as the person who should’ve been incognito to start with. still, as many eyes are directed towards him, surreptitiously and otherwise, he locks his eyes in noah’s. there’s a tint of startle, it seems, as their gazes meet. a curve of a lazy greeting formed on atlas’ lips, humming as he directs his singular focus towards the boy from his past.

and flashback to los angeles, years ago. cannot be bothered to remember the exact number, for years fleet in the eye of an immortal. in here, the high school crush harboured by a boy so timid, atlas found it rather… cute. almost. he was the amalgamation of uncertainties, his frame clung with the weight of puberty. yes, he talked to the boy before, finding it almost a bore. now, though, the aura worn is distinguished, the disparity a clear exhibit. he’s grown, that’s for sure, and he’s grown to become someone whose appearance atlas favours. a smirk, then. he knows some might have caught on that, but who is he to care, really? the class resumes, and he can tell that noah hasn’t changed his academic perspectives. still hardworking, but atlas is never really there for the materials he’s mastered from so many different universities throughout the centuries.

this might be a startle, how atlas is the one who has altered his appearances, even when he’s been donning the same name for the last… almost a decade now. sure, he could pass as an overgrown teenage, and he would prolong the timeframe to sometime near thirty, but it is difficult to pass as such these days, when he would normally be deemed as just another man-child. perhaps the current colour of his long hair does not aid his cause, but alas, not the time for that as of yet.

the lecture another source that leads to time ticking like molasses, but he entertains himself by fixing his attention on the boy from his past. a curl on the corners of his lips, and it stays until the end of his class. he doesn’t bother masking his agility upon making a beeline towards the exit, barely bumping against anyone, thanks to his heightened spatial awareness. he hums as he stands next to the boy right after noah is done packing his bag. “why, hello, you,” he says, mirth on the seam of his tone all too obvious. “noah. pleased to meet you. again.”

the tether around the deceased is a hybrid theory that he’s been so acquainted with, he might as well mistake it with the back of his hand. he might have started around six hundred years ago, the frame of time so vast, unforgiving, but it has never meant that his feelings about it falter. not that he’s visited where he should belong, aflame amidst his kin, and not that he’s visited the counterpart either… thank no one in particular for that, but— the accentuated placement of purgatory might have been to close to this fleeting earth. realities abound, there are too many of those who should have died, tasting it on the tips of their tongues only to have the concept of demise ripped apart from their fingers. to say that it is fortunate would be an understatement, and that can be stated as true from both apertures.

still, he can sense them: the fresh aftertastes of deaths, lingering. some days, in particular, he can feel the wraiths of its wraths clutching deep into the flesh of the man… supposedly not much older in appearance than he is. he saw him often in that very cafe he frequents in the mornings, when the quietude is still thick in the confines of the four walls. often quaint, the atmospheric blues are typically accompanied by the conversation the stranger shared with another, older man, sometimes. he doesn’t need to know them to know what they are in any perspective. and for that, the mean streaks in him incline towards disrupting their peace this once.

they eventually did become more than nameless strangers; in one gala he attended out of the compelling boredom—and their alcohol was, he regrets to say, below mediocre—he did encounter them. ah, jung uriel. he recalls the name of the absent one: the ceo of jung corporation, and the rest of details have evaporated from the mind. he does not retain insignificant knowledge. the one present today is… lee minjae, the famed author, but atlas is not exactly the bibliophile amidst the lots to preserve the addendums of titles, either.

the man looked forlorn yesterday, without uriel. it’s a peculiar sight, to say the least. minjae doesn’t seem like one to let the deluge of emotions bleed into his countenance, but these days, it’s been almost too palpable even for strangers like atlas. and for that, he believes that it might be the aftermath that minjae is facing, for the vultures of fears tend to gnaw at one’s marrows after the near death experiences of the beloveds. understandable, of course, but atlas isn’t one to relish in sympathy. instead, sees this as an opportunity to perhaps aggravate. he hums as he heads towards the exit after having too many shots of coffee, yet another substance his blood dilutes so fast it will never reach his synapses. minjae is seated still, in the booth for four, when he passes him by, pretending to just have noticed minjae’s presence.

the unease has yet to settle.

and so, he wanders. it feels like dislocating a bone, in which the discomfort remains without a hitch of regret, without a hint of lament. in this crook of the night, he finds it coruscating even further, no longer brief. understands this: there is a boy that preoccupies the otherwise blank space of his mind. and that, he believes, is where he should pinpoint the source of agitation, trepidation… no. atlas refuses to commit to the latter. nothing in this world should inflict fears, specifically into the crux of a demon. he is not that flask of sentiments, one which contains the foreign residues of feelings. and even if he is, he refuses to acknowledge it as such.

still, he finds himself in the silt of seoul, frantically seeking, searching. he is not going to confess, adhering to his own ethics of caprice. this is where his instincts lead him, but he has yet to find that one familiar face that keeps being the poltergeists in the mind at the loneliest moments. yes, atlas despises this, detesting any pint of what he would typically source in everyone else. the attribute of infatuation does not attach on his skin too well, his being a demon a telltale answer as to why. and yet, this isn’t the first time. this isn’t the last time, either. still, he denies, defies its complacency within. after all, this life is a series of post-mortems, and no, dead ones tell no tales of love.

… or so he repeatedly inscribes into the mind. however, the psyche bends to no one, and he is now combing the streets of seoul, wilting in the dark as he vacates one shadow, leaping to another. the guts veneer the belief that yes, in one of these lanes, he will find that anomaly. the boy that is too abrasive for his own good, park sangwoo. yes, he loathes this predicament, but there’s nothing that can bind him home when he senses something… ominous, to befall the boy. and fuck, no, atlas is not going to call and nag sangwoo, begging for his whereabouts. after all, if he does that, might as well be too late as—

well, again, fuck this. the vacillation around this periphery is proven true when he listens to the distant noises, one of the voices resembling one that sometimes becomes the wraiths, wisping in his reveries. much to his dismay, he has to admit to it as he turns himself into smokes, the phantom once again a saviour to the night’s posed threats. and yes, he is the witness to the debacle that occurs at the end of this alleyway, in which the singular rich kid, too grandiose to even belong in this scene, is cornered. he scoffs at the classic view; it’s not their fault that the boy dons too many branded items to be deemed as responsible for his own safety. and yes, the glint of the knives under the jaundice street lights a common hazard to this kind of crime. and yet, seeing the cowering gaze of the boy that might be good at handling three out of the eight, he knows better than to remain quiet in the crook of the convenient dark.

“ah, shit,” the phantom starts, now, his own voice an echo amidst the decrepit walls. “you really like to bully some weakling for money, huh?” a mean smirk underneath the cloth as he taunts, coming closer to interrupt the event. of course, the startle flagrantly donned by their features, including sangwoo’s, is understandable. after all, beyond the otherwise incognito gears, all black from head-to-toe, he has his opera mask on. ornate, almost, the monochromatic choice of the night out of another whim, but it does not make him seem less… dramatic. still, with the records against crimes he’s maintained, some might have heard of him, and—

perhaps not in this case, when the men start laughing. supposedly at his appearance, but atlas does not tend to take that to the heart. “and who’s this? some phantom of the opera shit? you’re in the wrong place, buddy, the theatre is a street away,” a chuckle of the man, clearly underestimating, but again, atlas is more than accustomed to having this kind of response. he huffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest. still, it proffers a distraction, their hands now no longer pinning sangwoo to the wall. no longer at a knifepoint, sangwoo still seems vulnerable, even when atlas knows that outside the shock, he’s a capable fighter. but this is no boxing ring. the peril presented isn’t a drill.

he sighs. “come, i’m not going to pull back my punches.” the provocation works like a charm, the men propelling themselves towards him. atlas is beyond amused, but he does pull back his punches, not using his violent streaks as a form of wrought performance. sangwoo does help, eventually, launching himself into actions as soon as he’s done standing still in the surprise. crippling them to toss away their knives is atlas’ main objective, and he does not exert too much energy to fight humans beyond dodging in the succinct lapses. after all, it’s still fresh, embedded in the forefront of the head, just how effortlessly he can rip their jugulars, ending their lives. tonight, he isn’t going to brand himself a murderer in front of a boy far too naive at times. sangwoo does not need this… yet.

a laugh later, the men stumble out of the lane, their bodies housing the impacts. he did not break a sweat, that’s for certain, but as the night eventually narrows down back to the deafening silence, he can hear the frantic breathing from sangwoo’s way. they observe as the men flee, leaving them alone, and after that, atlas doesn’t know how to refrain himself from pushing sangwoo by the shoulders, his gloved fingers digging deep into sangwoo’s expensive jacket. “you really couldn’t take a safer route, huh?” his tone is muted, a hiss, but clearly angered. the wrath that lines his intonation is uncharacteristic of atlas, that’s for sure, and it’s been a while since he’s lost control to tantrum, but this— “you’re such a fucking—” and through gritted teeth, he realises that he might have been lost in the deluge of feelings, carried away when sangwoo’s mouth falls agape with recognition. the name ‘seojoon’ still feels too intimate against sangwoo’s tongue, but it is there, enunciated in awe. and yes, in terms of pride, atlas would have resorted to denials, but even that option feels pathetic within the parenthesis. instead, he grunts, taken aback himself when he realises that he’s done more than what he’s supposed to let on.

the syllables enunciated still echo even to this day, and for that, he locates the riverbed of mirth in the corner of the lavish bar. presented before him are the rows of glasses, bottles, tintinnabulation in the collared lights of this dimly lit ballroom. he is never quite a good fit for the scene, but the opulent apparently imbibe his flask of languor with a grandiose amount of zeal. they ravish in the conundrums presented before them, as if he is a cusp of excitement. branded constantly anew, they always find ways to reach him, but tonight, he isn’t one to turn down the offer of attending a gala where the man… currently is.

the object of fixation for the night is clasped by the teeth of spotlight. he isn’t one to interrupt, however, so he patiently seats himself in the corner of this bar, silhouette the only company as he senses the hall. this is mayhem, the way people speak in the confines of these walls, their conversations a conduit of headaches. they are trivial, menial. these shallow minds gather in a unity, pretending they are the ones presenting the world on their globed shoulders. the truth can never be further than that, but who is he to accentuate this with any commentaries when he is one to mingle amidst their kind?

well, never stated that he’s not a hypocrite. in fact, everything about the word defines every fibre of his being.

he’s tessellated in the latticework of these high-end filaments, as threaded with utmost care. sometimes, they do not let him slip under their radar, but he is over all the mingling opportunities, therefore leaving the carved hole he’s dug for himself. clad in the personally tailored suit, sans tie, he is far from clandestine. none of his appearance of the night is meant to be incognito, since he’s here under the veneer of intents. no, he isn’t here to fade into the depth of the darkness, the way he typically would in these colloquial rendezvouses with those supposedly of his purported social status. for once in a blue moon, he isn’t aimless. the night is a flight of staircase towards the man, but he has yet to climb the steps.

not now, but eventual. the conceived meeting is rather… unpredictable. ko jaebeom is never a man of his own network since he has nothing much to do with him, until a call a few night ago… one that did not come through a device. instead, it was… surreal, almost. meant to be such, too. the solstice of this extent should flatter him, for one of the horsemen himself reached out towards the demon to seal the deal. he should really indulge in the gesture, considering that while he was made, he is also apt. there is no excuse to turn to him, nonetheless, out of all the demons out there. those more seasoned than him are aplenty, surrendering their liberated lives for the sake of some conceivable rewards. too many of them would reach out to the horseman in a manner relatively… unscrupulous. and yet, he was the one proffered. atlas holds in a scoff, derisive. he flicks the glance towards the man now still surrounded by mortals, basking in the attention given.

he chuckles when the bartender seizes his focus, asking if he’s even old enough to drink. “even if i’m not, what are you going to do about it?” he retorts. “vodka on the rocks. i’m not even going to blink having you… expelled from this bar.” shakes his head with the grin still marring his face. arrogance is an attribute worn well. “let me just call my father real quick, hm—” and he is provided with what he demanded. a swig later, and he smirks. runs a hand through his now peach hair, the pink applied last week fading already. hums as the burn scorches his system. the trickle a familiar extent to the late hour as more attendees crowd around him. some familiar faces curve into his peripheral view, and he looks away. isn’t in the appropriate mood to snap at anyone’s face right now, his predisposed facade a common complacency amidst the herds, yet he isn’t in the right headspace to cater to the said personality. he hums, downing the rest of his drink before he vacates the seat.

the night is a fleet, fleeting. the dark that enshrouds another source to trepidation to plenty, and that is why he roams at this hour. the beasts tend to wander at this given timespan, after all, reminding him to the axis of his being. he cannot defy the nature of a demon, after all, the attraction towards the vast, black sky a telltale signature of his footfalls. he treads into the depth of this thick blanket as the jaundice street lights, gleaming in intervals to illuminate the polished silhouettes of fellow night-dwellers as they capture their moments within this frame. and so, he is of no exception. ennui abound, there tends to be a cleft in this span of this zilch when he strides farther from home.

the waxing and waning moon a sign of times, but he has a good feeling about tonight, regardless of the eclipsing skies. no fixed destination, that’s for certain, and when he draws closer to the park blocks away from his residence, he can sense that the stale time is coming to a close.

the end is nigh as he approaches the man ( ? ) seated under the shade of the trees. the stranger is far from befitting against the fixture, an askew view from any aperture. perhaps it might be due to the supposed absence of the shadow as supposedly casted, the elongated expression an absentee that within this sight. a smirk blooms as he marches diligently, combing the sidewalk that sinks into the crisscross of pavements. he is not the aim of the sight; in fact, nobody is the aim of this sight. the hat is on, and last time, it was, too.

he isn’t meant to engage with the said occupant, but in this depth of this world’s stagnancy, there is nothing to drown into if not this. the deviance towards the world’s order is everything that embodies him. he is the quixotic embodiment of this juxtaposed disorders, the anomalies everything for him to embody. the smirk heightens as he crosses the lapse between them, ceasing his steps right before the reaper. the distance in-between barely suffices the notion of politeness, but alas, decorums are never anything atlas claims to be of his ante.

and so, standing there, he opens the conversation with a scoff. he shoves his hands into the singular pocket of his black hoodie, blending in with the backdrop as he would now be seen speaking to nothing in particular. invisibility is such a malady, the ailment a proponent of inconvenience for the passersby. still, he isn’t one to indulge in any belief of sanity; if he is to be deemed rather… divergent, then so be it. no sane being would ever lay claim on this kin as a form of their prosopopoeia. as such, he does not delve to well with the carve of monotony… he’s become the ambassador of annoyance, as bestowed upon himself.

he hums, then, to obtain the attention of the reaper. the cloaking mantle, the crouching headpiece… well, he cannot be mistaken. “ah,” he starts, his voice in tandem with the complementing clack of tongue. “nice to see you again… and yes, i can still see you.” it is with an edge of intended irony with which he laces his tonality. “too bad, huh? a nuisance cannot simply go away you know… and yes, before you ask whether i have anyone else to annoy, i suppose it is safe to say that any other competitors of yours are asleep at this hour.” a hum, prolonged. the relapse into a culture of an unexpected conversation does not escape him, wilting in the corner of his mind with the entire knowledge that one should not simply engage with the angel of death. still, he is never one to abide by any regulations, specifically ones designed for the earthlings… since he isn’t one. “oh, not that look again.” his laughter strays, colouring the shadows with the attuning regrets, donned by the reaper so effortlessly. amusing.