no man is an island
Characters: Wolf, V.
Content: V admits, in his own manner, to being lonely and missing Evey. Wolf comes over to keep him company.
Location: The New Museum.
Time of day: Afternoon?
Warnings: Purple prose.
V waited in the halls adjacent to the front foyer, sometimes pacing restlessly, sometimes rearranging the prints he'd hung to replace what had been burnt, before he'd made the museum his own.
"All this art. All this open space. All these others...." He spoke to himself, but he did not mutter. It was a professional address, possessed of all the same affectations he presented to other people. For the moment, he was both actor and audience. "I suppose I've been spoiled---strike that! I'm certain of it!" He turned away from the wall, and sighed, breaking the script. This wasn't a stage-sigh, heard from halfway across the hall, but almost silent---a small, sad thing.
"Eve began the best of it." It was a plain and simple truth. She had, because she had shattered his expectations of remaining underground and isolated until the end... not unlike this place, and how it had shattered his expectations of The End even after all the alterations.
"You can't predict where the outcome lies... It's outrageous. It's absurd." He pulled a face beneath his mask, feeling his spirit lift as if caught on a wave, with the realization of the world as crazier and more than any of them thought. Incorrigibly plural. It would slip away to allow act, scene, and action, but for a second it was present and it was profound. "It's existential. For the world is more spiteful and gay than one supposes---on the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands... There is more than glass between the snow and huge roses."
Was that the door?
Content: V admits, in his own manner, to being lonely and missing Evey. Wolf comes over to keep him company.
Location: The New Museum.
Time of day: Afternoon?
Warnings: Purple prose.
V waited in the halls adjacent to the front foyer, sometimes pacing restlessly, sometimes rearranging the prints he'd hung to replace what had been burnt, before he'd made the museum his own.
"All this art. All this open space. All these others...." He spoke to himself, but he did not mutter. It was a professional address, possessed of all the same affectations he presented to other people. For the moment, he was both actor and audience. "I suppose I've been spoiled---strike that! I'm certain of it!" He turned away from the wall, and sighed, breaking the script. This wasn't a stage-sigh, heard from halfway across the hall, but almost silent---a small, sad thing.
"Eve began the best of it." It was a plain and simple truth. She had, because she had shattered his expectations of remaining underground and isolated until the end... not unlike this place, and how it had shattered his expectations of The End even after all the alterations.
"You can't predict where the outcome lies... It's outrageous. It's absurd." He pulled a face beneath his mask, feeling his spirit lift as if caught on a wave, with the realization of the world as crazier and more than any of them thought. Incorrigibly plural. It would slip away to allow act, scene, and action, but for a second it was present and it was profound. "It's existential. For the world is more spiteful and gay than one supposes---on the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands... There is more than glass between the snow and huge roses."
Was that the door?