(no subject)
There is a tiny nymph tucked into the furthest corner of a booth - long legs curled under her, nose scrunched in concentration, and a copy of a certain play in her hands. The pages turn slowly - very, very slowly - because there are far more words on them than Lethe can honestly say that she’s accustomed to.
But having something to do is nice - helps to straighten out the tired, uneven edges. To silence the whispering and stop the creeping, hollow uncertainty. And, for the moment, she looks somewhere close to settled, free to be somewhere else for a while - even if it is somewhere imagined.
But having something to do is nice - helps to straighten out the tired, uneven edges. To silence the whispering and stop the creeping, hollow uncertainty. And, for the moment, she looks somewhere close to settled, free to be somewhere else for a while - even if it is somewhere imagined.