Prompt: You encounter a large piece of machinery on the outskirts of Descoria...
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[luut solo]
Luut's slumber was premeditated inexistence. He woke untethered to the fog of salubrious dreams, and immersed himself into the fog of his reality. The sun rose over a city of people too concerned with themselves to be welcoming. A spectacle of pastels painted across the cloud-drifted skies of Descoria were too remarkable to be noticed, too fantastical to be remembered. In the early hours of that unimportant day, bustlers bustled on and hustlers hunkered down, now bereft their cover of midnight deception so ripped from them by the father of light. Luut was a man who was ambivalent toward hours. Time, itself, was a necessary component to any living thing, but its implementation of increments served better to burden than it did to benefit. Not bothered by the perpetual notches every second of life sliced into his being, Luut found himself unconcerned with speed more than trajectory; he moved at many miles per who knew, feet per unconcerned, inches per it didn't matter. There lingered drive in the subconscious, and for the time being it was his own, though vague and not quite reliable. Breakfast had proved to be an unfulfulling mixture of oil and chemicals carefully concocted to prolong the consternation of the time he took no note of; it fueled the motion and made slick the mechanisms that perpetuated the sort of life he lived. ( Taste was a false luxury for those who counted seconds. ) |