oo1 → written.
[ the words scrawled on the page are in a surprisingly neat and almost flowy handwriting, something those who know him probably wouldn't associate with his person. nevermind that he mastered the art of wielding a pen long before that of other sharp things-- awful poetry aside, of course. he contemplated speaking to the journal, but he didn't see the point in doing so when it's a journal and in flipping through the thing saw several written entries. "must be enchanted," he'd said to himself and to test out just how enchanted, he'd settled on writing something in it himself after locating something to write with. ]
Not only do the Senior Partners or the Powers That What's-It (whoever the hell's responsible for this) send you to a mockery of heaven where sunlight still burns and you've got a nice set of wings to go along with it that look more suited to Cupid than an angel, but you get a journal to write down all your thoughts on this wonderful place. There's a punchline in there somewhere, I'm sure. Has to be. This is just someone's grand idea of a joke. A bad joke, but a joke. What is this, some sort of alternate dimension where they glue wings to you and watch you run around like a chicken with your head cut off while you try and sort out how to get the hell out of here? 'Cause that's always fun. Alternate dimensions, that is. Never been to one myself, but heard my fair share of horror stories in regards to them.
...singing's not outlawed here, is it? And on that note, no one randomly bursts into song, do they? Both tend to have nasty consequences that come with a side order of that funky burning smell and things that never come out of the carpet.
Not only do the Senior Partners or the Powers That What's-It (whoever the hell's responsible for this) send you to a mockery of heaven where sunlight still burns and you've got a nice set of wings to go along with it that look more suited to Cupid than an angel, but you get a journal to write down all your thoughts on this wonderful place. There's a punchline in there somewhere, I'm sure. Has to be. This is just someone's grand idea of a joke. A bad joke, but a joke. What is this, some sort of alternate dimension where they glue wings to you and watch you run around like a chicken with your head cut off while you try and sort out how to get the hell out of here? 'Cause that's always fun. Alternate dimensions, that is. Never been to one myself, but heard my fair share of horror stories in regards to them.
...singing's not outlawed here, is it? And on that note, no one randomly bursts into song, do they? Both tend to have nasty consequences that come with a side order of that funky burning smell and things that never come out of the carpet.