I say I won’t surrender (But I know darn well you will)
Today, in the early afternoon, a well-dressed man in reading glasses sits on a park bench, holding a book. Today, Den Varlis is Christopher Clark. He's not on the same bench where he spoke to Rachel, though he is visible from it--it's part of Christopher's routine, this path, this bench. Why else would he have bumped into Rachel before? No other reason, surely. To all intents and purpose he's absorbed in Paradise Lost. He does enjoy the book. He likes to think Milton was more his sort of people than not.
Either way, the day is cool but fine, and sometimes it's nice to get out of one's office for a while. The smell of blood can get to a person.
Later, there's a little girl scaling the Ferris wheel on Navy Pier. She suddenly and inexplicably found herself in one of the cars after-hours, and--seeing as she couldn't find another way out--she's now attempting to climb down the side of the ride. While clinging to a violin case with one hand.
And late at night in the Conrad, Ruvin is in the common room by the fire, curled up under a comforter with a book laying open at her feet. It's one of the history volumes she got for Christmas months ago, one detailing the history of China through the Zhou Dynasty. She's watching the flames now, because someone turned out the lights as they were leaving the room, apparently not having noticed her. She can't look away. She can't look away, because then they'll disappear, and if they disappear something terrible will happen.
It makes sense. It does. It makes sense.
Either way, the day is cool but fine, and sometimes it's nice to get out of one's office for a while. The smell of blood can get to a person.
Later, there's a little girl scaling the Ferris wheel on Navy Pier. She suddenly and inexplicably found herself in one of the cars after-hours, and--seeing as she couldn't find another way out--she's now attempting to climb down the side of the ride. While clinging to a violin case with one hand.
And late at night in the Conrad, Ruvin is in the common room by the fire, curled up under a comforter with a book laying open at her feet. It's one of the history volumes she got for Christmas months ago, one detailing the history of China through the Zhou Dynasty. She's watching the flames now, because someone turned out the lights as they were leaving the room, apparently not having noticed her. She can't look away. She can't look away, because then they'll disappear, and if they disappear something terrible will happen.
It makes sense. It does. It makes sense.