a pair of butlers - inception
It's more than 'seen, not heard.' It's 'invisible.'
Because butlers are not young ladies. Butlers are forces of nature. They create the world in which everyone else lives, lifting fingers in the darkness to spin webs of servents and cutlery and linen that half the world doesn't know exists. They're awake before the world is breathing. They spark the actual magic that keeps a castle running without anyone knowing they're setting everything that ever happens into motion.
One could see them, of course--but only if one looked very hard.
Early in the morning, for example. A butler's day began before the sun is properly up. Which means that getting up even earlier is a feat to be commended. The air is crisp and chill as always, accentuated by the height of the ramparts. The men are nearly invisible in their respective shadows.
Falling to is silent, almost choreographed. There's something clean to the precision with which they slash. Each stroke snaps the air soundlessly, each face set in the same rigid certainty of where the next it meant to fall.
It is ruthless. It is unrestrained. It is silent and performed with exacting spesificity until each man has a butterknife at the other's throat with a silence sharpened far beyond the weapons in their hands. It is a long, tense pause before, almost in unison, hands drop away again and each man melts back into his own shadow, his own Suit, his own web.
It is silent.
r.i.p.
1996 - 2012
image by the amazing kissing-the-shoreline @ tumblr, used with permission.
Because butlers are not young ladies. Butlers are forces of nature. They create the world in which everyone else lives, lifting fingers in the darkness to spin webs of servents and cutlery and linen that half the world doesn't know exists. They're awake before the world is breathing. They spark the actual magic that keeps a castle running without anyone knowing they're setting everything that ever happens into motion.
One could see them, of course--but only if one looked very hard.
Early in the morning, for example. A butler's day began before the sun is properly up. Which means that getting up even earlier is a feat to be commended. The air is crisp and chill as always, accentuated by the height of the ramparts. The men are nearly invisible in their respective shadows.
Falling to is silent, almost choreographed. There's something clean to the precision with which they slash. Each stroke snaps the air soundlessly, each face set in the same rigid certainty of where the next it meant to fall.
It is ruthless. It is unrestrained. It is silent and performed with exacting spesificity until each man has a butterknife at the other's throat with a silence sharpened far beyond the weapons in their hands. It is a long, tense pause before, almost in unison, hands drop away again and each man melts back into his own shadow, his own Suit, his own web.
It is silent.
r.i.p.
1996 - 2012
image by the amazing kissing-the-shoreline @ tumblr, used with permission.