how the hell are we gonna make it to heaven?
There is a vampire at your bar, Nexus, a glass of blood sitting next to the chair he's perched on. Harvestman is wearing a white wife beater and jeans with holes ripped into the knees (this is not for the sake of fashion; he's just like that). His dogtags, the inscription beaten and marred beyond legibility, hung freely from his neck over the shirt. He is very carefully sewing buttons back onto the shirt draped across his lap, so when he speaks, he doesn't look up.
"Habits and other such distractions only take you so far. They surely do work for awhile, but after a time nothing really works. What do ya'll do to keep your mind offa things?" He gestures, needle in hand, toward various Christmas decorations off to his right. "Especially when the whole damn world keeps on reminding you?"
"Habits and other such distractions only take you so far. They surely do work for awhile, but after a time nothing really works. What do ya'll do to keep your mind offa things?" He gestures, needle in hand, toward various Christmas decorations off to his right. "Especially when the whole damn world keeps on reminding you?"