✞19 Days since my Last Confession✞
[✝]Job 10:1 & Job 7:11
My soul is weary, I loathe my very life . . .
Therefore I will not refrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.[✝]
[☨]The door to the church slams shut with a whirl of snow-flurries and a gonging echo that resounds across the auditorium and back again. Leaning against the doorframe is Maxwell, panting from over-exertion from running through the snow, a look of pure fluster splashing rosette across his pale face that twitches from the cold, sweat frozen on his slender brow. After escaping the mess of the hospital and tending to that girl, mortified bemusement runs through his very corrupt soul.[☨]
What was I thinking going after her?!
[☨]Digging his hands into his tightly wound hair, he blathers rather inaudibly in unrefined Italian, for one that acted so regal.[☨]
Io sono malato? Io sono fuori come un balcone!? Io sono... impazzita?! Che cazzo c'è di sbagliato in mi?!
[☨]Adrenaline puttering out, the chill finally takes hold of him as he sinks to the floor and clutches the thin sleeves of his white under-shirt, for for the first time since the temperatures dropped the Archbishop was without his heavy cassock. Shivering violently he stares out into the mess of debris left behind in this Holy Temple, feeling a pang in his chest that quaked into the twitching and wincing of his eye.[☨]
Dio mio, non capisco questo dolore.
Perché?
[☨]Hardly capturing anything from his pocket's eye-view, the device times out.[☨]
((OOC: Translation: I am sick? Am I out like a balcony!? (Am I out of my mind!?) I am ... insane?! What the fuck is wrong with me?! ... My God, I do not understand this pain. Why? ))
My soul is weary, I loathe my very life . . .
Therefore I will not refrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.[✝]
[☨]The door to the church slams shut with a whirl of snow-flurries and a gonging echo that resounds across the auditorium and back again. Leaning against the doorframe is Maxwell, panting from over-exertion from running through the snow, a look of pure fluster splashing rosette across his pale face that twitches from the cold, sweat frozen on his slender brow. After escaping the mess of the hospital and tending to that girl, mortified bemusement runs through his very corrupt soul.[☨]
What was I thinking going after her?!
[☨]Digging his hands into his tightly wound hair, he blathers rather inaudibly in unrefined Italian, for one that acted so regal.[☨]
Io sono malato? Io sono fuori come un balcone!? Io sono... impazzita?! Che cazzo c'è di sbagliato in mi?!
[☨]Adrenaline puttering out, the chill finally takes hold of him as he sinks to the floor and clutches the thin sleeves of his white under-shirt, for for the first time since the temperatures dropped the Archbishop was without his heavy cassock. Shivering violently he stares out into the mess of debris left behind in this Holy Temple, feeling a pang in his chest that quaked into the twitching and wincing of his eye.[☨]
Dio mio, non capisco questo dolore.
Perché?
[☨]Hardly capturing anything from his pocket's eye-view, the device times out.[☨]
((OOC: Translation: I am sick? Am I out like a balcony!? (Am I out of my mind!?) I am ... insane?! What the fuck is wrong with me?! ... My God, I do not understand this pain. Why? ))