Re: Log: Miles W + Damian W They do not experience sadness as we do, funny way of talking, he thinks. But is that so? He’s moony on this shaky limb of a thought, but does not say a word in this high, yellow noonlight, where by this man’s portico everything falls pale as Terlingua does, around this very same dreaming trudge. The cold lurch into spring. He sulks in a low-cut flutter of memory by his lonesome for an instant, carne asada and a rusty T-Rex in a graveyard and the Rio Grande over a bajada. Lucky animals; man being the cruelest animal, deserves his woe, he thinks. He offers a somewhat allayed half-grin, satisfied by the idea. There’s cleanly shaven blades of grass about, somewhere, or must be. He can detect the scent of vegetal musk. He likes it, but then again, he would. He’s always been earthy, and is of a place borne lacking such a gamy tang.
“Duty and morality, though prolly not in a Kant way. More a Camus.” The man has far too an insufferable sentimentality in him, this practically broadcast from drowsy eyes of seasick blue. What he’d said to that buttercup blonde who was, by his astonishment, being quiet as a fieldmouse, still weighed on him. “Life’s the sum of all your choices.” as instructed he was spreading open the maw of the PokePack (which he’d tittered about in the pet store) with calloused, workworn hands; these very same hands that at times have run with blood, “I’ve got a little sister, can’t have kids herself. Said she wanted to be a mother. She asked if she could have a cat. I told her no. She’s terribly irresponsible.”
‘Still the nicest killer I’ve ever met.’ she whispers, near this angular man and his unusual lineaments.
& cue Miles’ first allergic sneeze, before he continues, “And yet, here I am.”