Room 322, Thursday Morning
The mortal incarnation of the anthropomorphic personification of life and death itself was propped up with pillows against the headboard of her bed, knitting something gray and maroon striped. She hadn't decided yet if it was going to grow up to be an afghan, or if she'd get bored by the time it was a scarf.
She was thinking, too. About Atropos' daughter and Aphrodite, about Drake and how very many worlds there were that she didn't know nearly enough about, despite knowing all she did.
And, almost distressingly often given her decidedly mixed feelings about dating mortals, about Jono, who might get the knitted thing if it did grow up to be a scarf.
Didi's door was open and she had the Psychedelic Furs on her CD player.
[Linkdrop-cum-open post, sure.]
She was thinking, too. About Atropos' daughter and Aphrodite, about Drake and how very many worlds there were that she didn't know nearly enough about, despite knowing all she did.
And, almost distressingly often given her decidedly mixed feelings about dating mortals, about Jono, who might get the knitted thing if it did grow up to be a scarf.
Didi's door was open and she had the Psychedelic Furs on her CD player.
[Linkdrop-cum-open post, sure.]