Kepler / OC / averagepanfandomways
It's a day, you know, one of those days. A day where she is claustrophobic and that little voice in her head is whispering get a fix, get a fix, get a
Shut up, little voice.
So Kepler - ex-junkie, ex-lab rat (lab wolf?), werewolf and writer - is outside, siting on the seat-swing, idly swinging herself. She would be writing, but it's a little hard when you are going swing, swing, swing, so her pen is just filling the page with marks.
Wasteful, in the post-apocalypse.
But, hey, bar at the end of the universe.
(if one gets the impression that she is entirely botherable, this is correct)