First day back!
First day back to work, and as always, you get a varied set of calls. First there were the quick ones, which is basically me being a switchboard operator (“Give me a moment, let me route you over to the correct department!”), the valid ones (trickiest thing today was about a video card replacement), and the lastly, the head-desking, today-is-just-not-my-day ones. I had one customer insist on speaking to a supervisor when she's out of warranty, and would not take no for an answer. T^T I mean, I can support you within reason, you know!
hng_deathmatch is drawing to a close, and I'm cheering on the possible winners. I'm going to win my bets, I think! Hee~♥
Quick break from the world at large, an unfinished entry for subrosa_tennis currently at 5k plus. Future Tezuka/Fuji. Obviously something that was made with the idea of padding wordcount!
Fuji finished off the cappuccino, relishing the stale sweetness of the cooled drink, and on the table he wrote off one more photo postcard, this time a view of the London skyline at sunset. Written at the back was a quote he asked the waitress to scrawl he found while he traveled. It almost seemed ironic to write it down.
"People commonly travel the world over to see rivers and mountains, new stars, garish birds, freak fish, grotesque breeds of human; they fall into an animal stupor that gapes at existence and they think they have seen something."
Fuji did not like irony - much. He lost the joy of it somewhere - maybe as he was traveling to Nepal to view the prayer wheels and hear the calm words of the Tibetan monks and their acceptance of the cycles of living and dying. How could he be ironic after experiencing the serene lifestyle of monks who lived with no expectations? It was easier to be ironic when you had someone to be ironic with and something to be ironic about but these days just the photographs existed to connect him to the reality.
"Will you mail this for me?" he asked the waitress in his faintly accented English, and she smilingly agreed. He wrote down the address he knew by heart, and afterwards, picked up his camera and prepared for a day of tourist sightseeing. When he stopped by the red and black mailbox he slipped a few other postmarked postcards inside.
He touched his pocket, feeling the weight of a book pressed against his shirt. His smile was a bit broken at the edges, as if it was not only the weight of the book, but the weight of the world resting on his chest.
The world was an oyster, and it was his, metaphorically speaking. He had been around and everywhere, doing what he loved best, and yet he knew too much of loneliness now to enjoy it. He looked up to the sky.
hng_deathmatch is drawing to a close, and I'm cheering on the possible winners. I'm going to win my bets, I think! Hee~♥
Quick break from the world at large, an unfinished entry for subrosa_tennis currently at 5k plus. Future Tezuka/Fuji. Obviously something that was made with the idea of padding wordcount!
Fuji finished off the cappuccino, relishing the stale sweetness of the cooled drink, and on the table he wrote off one more photo postcard, this time a view of the London skyline at sunset. Written at the back was a quote he asked the waitress to scrawl he found while he traveled. It almost seemed ironic to write it down.
"People commonly travel the world over to see rivers and mountains, new stars, garish birds, freak fish, grotesque breeds of human; they fall into an animal stupor that gapes at existence and they think they have seen something."
Fuji did not like irony - much. He lost the joy of it somewhere - maybe as he was traveling to Nepal to view the prayer wheels and hear the calm words of the Tibetan monks and their acceptance of the cycles of living and dying. How could he be ironic after experiencing the serene lifestyle of monks who lived with no expectations? It was easier to be ironic when you had someone to be ironic with and something to be ironic about but these days just the photographs existed to connect him to the reality.
"Will you mail this for me?" he asked the waitress in his faintly accented English, and she smilingly agreed. He wrote down the address he knew by heart, and afterwards, picked up his camera and prepared for a day of tourist sightseeing. When he stopped by the red and black mailbox he slipped a few other postmarked postcards inside.
He touched his pocket, feeling the weight of a book pressed against his shirt. His smile was a bit broken at the edges, as if it was not only the weight of the book, but the weight of the world resting on his chest.
The world was an oyster, and it was his, metaphorically speaking. He had been around and everywhere, doing what he loved best, and yet he knew too much of loneliness now to enjoy it. He looked up to the sky.