...and nobody had dinner that night.
Sometimes the words make no sense until you pair them with unlikely partners.
Continued from here.
Basking in the light of the thirsty goddess, I paused to look around. I wanted to look upon my city and see something familiar, something warming to my fragile body and mind. What I see is not of any encouragement. The streets are filthy, encrusted in a layer of grime and slime. Water flows down the edges pouring down rusted storm drain covers. The building I escaped from had no sign, appearing as though the letters had been pried off with some kind heavy tool. I strained my eyes to read the faded outlines, "Weyland Hotel."
I spoke it aloud, recalling checking in. It was clean, immaculate, warm and bright. In fact the whole street seemed friendlier, now the pavement itself seemed to have ill intent. The air was thick, as though it were mulling over something just above the ground. This wasn't my city, not anymore.
The shadows of Weyland grew restless, the building seeming discontent. Something driving me away from that place, away from the rat boy at the elevator, away from the swirling lights and mystery smears.
Where can I go? I stumble across the desolate street, guided by the light of the thirsty goddess. A booth is there, once containing a phone, but that was been taken away, leaving it a solitary glass structure, spraypaint decorating it on every pane. It seemed to be safer than on the street, and the door could be closed behind me.
I cowered in the booth, recalling at time I hid under my father's desk in a lightning storm, draping a blanket over the entryway. I opened the suitcase once more. Clues. I needed clues.
Continued from here.
Basking in the light of the thirsty goddess, I paused to look around. I wanted to look upon my city and see something familiar, something warming to my fragile body and mind. What I see is not of any encouragement. The streets are filthy, encrusted in a layer of grime and slime. Water flows down the edges pouring down rusted storm drain covers. The building I escaped from had no sign, appearing as though the letters had been pried off with some kind heavy tool. I strained my eyes to read the faded outlines, "Weyland Hotel."
I spoke it aloud, recalling checking in. It was clean, immaculate, warm and bright. In fact the whole street seemed friendlier, now the pavement itself seemed to have ill intent. The air was thick, as though it were mulling over something just above the ground. This wasn't my city, not anymore.
The shadows of Weyland grew restless, the building seeming discontent. Something driving me away from that place, away from the rat boy at the elevator, away from the swirling lights and mystery smears.
Where can I go? I stumble across the desolate street, guided by the light of the thirsty goddess. A booth is there, once containing a phone, but that was been taken away, leaving it a solitary glass structure, spraypaint decorating it on every pane. It seemed to be safer than on the street, and the door could be closed behind me.
I cowered in the booth, recalling at time I hid under my father's desk in a lightning storm, draping a blanket over the entryway. I opened the suitcase once more. Clues. I needed clues.