[Open]
Characters: Machi Tobaye and you. (I hope.)
Location: Not too far from the Casualty Communal, streets
Rating: PG, for now.
Time: September 9, I guess. Let's backdate this baby.
Description: Machi just... isn't processing this well. Hopefully someone will harass the introvert.
At first, Machi had simply stood in his residence, too ambivalent about the entire circumstance, overwhelmed by information, the unrealistic existence and unwilling to touch anything or even make it real. Slowly, however, he had begun to move taking steps, careful ones, around his flat, touching only a few things, very carefully, before abandoning the venture.
He simply didn't need to investigate a bed.
He should have, he knew, but that wasn't what was bothering him--his head felt heavy, tired, overloaded with weights and debris that pressed down on top of everything, and he didn't want to be in there any more, with the walls pressing in, meaningless, and so it was with a stoic clarity that he walked along the street, out in the open, avoiding faces, his head buzzing, loud with words. He walked along the buildings, silently, his hand out, tracing slowly the edge of each building, his eyes unfocused, indirect, seeing but not seeing--
Sometimes, it was better to be blind than it was to see.
Location: Not too far from the Casualty Communal, streets
Rating: PG, for now.
Time: September 9, I guess. Let's backdate this baby.
Description: Machi just... isn't processing this well. Hopefully someone will harass the introvert.
At first, Machi had simply stood in his residence, too ambivalent about the entire circumstance, overwhelmed by information, the unrealistic existence and unwilling to touch anything or even make it real. Slowly, however, he had begun to move taking steps, careful ones, around his flat, touching only a few things, very carefully, before abandoning the venture.
He simply didn't need to investigate a bed.
He should have, he knew, but that wasn't what was bothering him--his head felt heavy, tired, overloaded with weights and debris that pressed down on top of everything, and he didn't want to be in there any more, with the walls pressing in, meaningless, and so it was with a stoic clarity that he walked along the street, out in the open, avoiding faces, his head buzzing, loud with words. He walked along the buildings, silently, his hand out, tracing slowly the edge of each building, his eyes unfocused, indirect, seeing but not seeing--
Sometimes, it was better to be blind than it was to see.