“Let me, O let me bathe my soul in colours; let me swallow the sunset and drink the rainbow.
—Khalil Gibran
Touch, no imprint.
Drink, but no digestion.
The mask may change form across the sea of splendor, but the heart remains the same.
I will love you all again, every time.
...
...
...
Wait a fucking minute.
"Um. Where am I?" The sunlight is still hurting his eyes, but he really couldn't give less of a damn. As much of stupid question that is knowing his own conflict, it's not a risk to look for familiarity.
A muffled response. Only lifting his head once he acknowledges he probably wasn't heard. “Okay.” no, wait, the last line. Not the other ones. “I'll live.”
Whether he was okay in all aspects of the spectrum couldn't be answered. And a part of him didn't really want to.
⠀⠀⠀he catches a person being
⠀⠀⠀accused of turning people
⠀⠀⠀into ink statues.
⠀⠀⠀❛‘You may remain silent but
⠀⠀⠀any funny moves and I'll...’❜
⠀⠀⠀The thiren was saying when
⠀⠀⠀𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 happens.
⠀⠀⠀❛‘Are you ok?’❜ ⠀He crouches
⠀⠀⠀next to...
c.
Unaware of anything he said prior, or any rules who could've broken— Even stepping close-- tripping and falling flat on his face.
Though, he doesn't make any effort to get up..
No response. At least, not yet. Loud sentences dragging out of his inner trace.
Two blinks, his vision is blurry. Then looking around. The afternoon sun welcomes— sunlight pointing to Seth and.. whatever they're holding.
..oh. they're pointing it /at/ him. Okay.
“Yes?”