(Untitled)

[narrated_life]

Harold had left some time back. The leaving wasn't important enough to be narrated. Really, it wasn't

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[notjustnarrator]

"Evening," says the cheerful man with the flute nearby.

[narrated_life]

Harold looks up from his new journal.

" Hello."

Flute, woodwind, 16 fingerholes.

[notjustnarrator]

Nick's not peering at it, but he has moved a few seats over to sit next to the man.

"Nick Carraway," he smiles brightly, offering his free hand.

[narrated_life]

" Harold Crick," He says, smiling back politely.

He had been writing about the endless oceans in the filing cabinets.

The name sounds familiar, but then maybe if Harold had paid more attention to literature in high school, his life might have been different.

[explorertruman]

(ooc: wooot! They're showing his movie tonight on campus around here. Hee!)

Truman glanced over, and waved, "Evening Harold!"

[narrated_life]

Harold looks up from his notebook when he hears his name.

A grin comes on his face when he sees that it was Truman.

" Hey, evening!"

[explorertruman]

Truman got up, and came over to grab a barstool near Harold.

"Been a while, how you been? Getting used to the place yet?"

[narrated_life]

" I went back, but it was only about a day my time."

Harold fiddles with his pen.

" Did I tell you about the voice?"