I fear it may only produce nothing, except a waste of time.
(but, he hasn’t refused or so much as indicated an attempt. & he knows the man is likely right; it all, eventually, begins to feel stuffy, especially with distracting guests.)
❪ Fingers drum idly against the table, expression twisting in thought. ❫
... Y’ever thought of takin’ a walk in the garden? Might knock somethin’ loose up in that artist brain of yours. Or.. at the very least, some fresher air than what’s been circulating up there.
(Heading to his room with a concerned look on his face, yes, he’s heard quite enough then. For the first time in forever, Oletus Manor should band together to nail the Novelist to a post outside. 💭*)