Re: The Icarus/The Fallen
He had concerned himself with details once. He was sure of it. As sure as he was that he was seated here upon this bench and with this gentlemen beside him. His memory was clouded this evening, as it often was as the day passed into night, but he remembered this. He remembered a time when he was concerned with the minutiae of living. He recalled mornings with a light that brightened slowly, peacefully and intending to usher a productive day in along with its glow. There had been places to go then. Not that he didn't have places now, but there was no purpose. Even this journey upon this train was a thing of needless whim. There was no alarm to wake him now. The days all melded together, a collection of faces and names not recalled once they were beyond his vision.
He continued to guide the man's hands as the confession was made about not knowing what was felt. "I feel too many things," he admitted. "I often look in the mirror and wonder that I should." It was not deliberately cryptic, but it was true. He was empty in his own way, both of pigment and color and of purpose, and yet he felt so many things.
The feel of the man's hands beneath his own, for example, was felt and learned. He felt his sleeve where it brushed the other man's arm. He felt the dip of the keys as they played. Once he stopped and drew his hands back, then he felt the cool air beneath his fingertips alone once more. "I feel a great many things," he repeated, his smile a scythe sliced pale on pale into his left cheek. "Why did you join me?" he asked next with youthful curiosity touching his features. He did not return his fingers to the keys. He swiveled a little, so that he could better look at the man while they conversed. "I am called Enlil. Might I be given your name?" There was importance in names. He was not certain that his parents had thought it over much when deciding upon his, but it was his and he had molded himself to fit it throughout the years. He was sure of it.