that the death we fear in our bones is the death that every night we call a dream.
[At some point yesterday, a certain patch of ground was splattered with someone's blood and bits of anatomy. But not too much, of course, because Arthur - as in all other aspects of her life - is really fairly tidy and efficient when it comes to killing herself.
Now, however, Arthur is wandering back around that patch of the Plane, carrying a cup of tea and feeling distinctly fuzzy, almost (or positively) drugged. Her balance feels off, so she should probably sit down until that goes away, but for now she's being stubborn and staying on her feet.
At least her suit appears unscathed.]
Now, however, Arthur is wandering back around that patch of the Plane, carrying a cup of tea and feeling distinctly fuzzy, almost (or positively) drugged. Her balance feels off, so she should probably sit down until that goes away, but for now she's being stubborn and staying on her feet.
At least her suit appears unscathed.]