Soul (
are_you_99) wrote2009-03-13 05:20 am
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no strings could secure you at the station
There is a boy of an unidentifiable age sitting at a piano. Shadows eclipse most of this room, the only light that shines comes from the ivory of the keys; but when there is little light, it serves not to illuminate, but rather to enhance the mystery.
You were not here before. Do you even remember where you had been before? Surely it matters not at this moment. There is a boy, there is a piano, and there is a small demon pushing at your legs - push, shuffle, push, until you're in the room and the door
clanks
shut.
You were not here before. Do you even remember where you had been before? Surely it matters not at this moment. There is a boy, there is a piano, and there is a small demon pushing at your legs - push, shuffle, push, until you're in the room and the door
clanks
shut.
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He's not happy with this, and he feels exposed without clouds of cigar smoke and lines of men ready to do his work like dogs. Still, he won't show it.
"What is this?"
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Ooooh, someone's in a bad mood.
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"Tch." He gives a little headtoss, raising his chin so he can sneer downwards. "Either way, you might want to get me the hell out of this dump. The pseudo-classy ensemble decor is making me sick."
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