because there's an orchestra in me
WHO: Katurian and you! (OPEN.)
WHERE: Central Park
WHEN: All day today (Saturday, July 24th)
WARNINGS: Katurian's dubious taste in fiction (fictional blood, guts, dead children, DOOM DOOM DOOM)
SUMMARY: Katurian is telling his stories in the park.
FORMAT: Opening with paragraph. Come in as you'd like!
In March, before his crushed hands, before his breakdown (but not before Margaret Marks, the woman that never was), Katurian had set out to tell his stories in the park, fueled by the cheerful acceptance of his own hopelessness. It was different this time. Now he had hope, or something like it. He didn't have hope for his own life (he had long since accepted that it officially ended before he even arrived) and he still believed that the world was a hollow place, filled with filth and pain and suffering. But he knew that, at least this time, his stories would be safe. It was like a rock had been lifted from his back. He lived without dread.
At eight in the morning, Katurian brought a new crate to Central Park, stood up on it, and started telling his stories to whomever walked by. Again, he told ones he had told the Network, along with others he had written back home. It was a good feeling. He felt good.
WHERE: Central Park
WHEN: All day today (Saturday, July 24th)
WARNINGS: Katurian's dubious taste in fiction (fictional blood, guts, dead children, DOOM DOOM DOOM)
SUMMARY: Katurian is telling his stories in the park.
FORMAT: Opening with paragraph. Come in as you'd like!
In March, before his crushed hands, before his breakdown (but not before Margaret Marks, the woman that never was), Katurian had set out to tell his stories in the park, fueled by the cheerful acceptance of his own hopelessness. It was different this time. Now he had hope, or something like it. He didn't have hope for his own life (he had long since accepted that it officially ended before he even arrived) and he still believed that the world was a hollow place, filled with filth and pain and suffering. But he knew that, at least this time, his stories would be safe. It was like a rock had been lifted from his back. He lived without dread.
At eight in the morning, Katurian brought a new crate to Central Park, stood up on it, and started telling his stories to whomever walked by. Again, he told ones he had told the Network, along with others he had written back home. It was a good feeling. He felt good.