Upstairs halls (for now...)
Oh, vast, marvelous abode! Home of the cupbearer, Hebe! Spilling over a sickly chalice full of flowers, chatter, and decay!
The sight of inebriated laughter burns the black halls of his eyelids with gold. The music needles his sore ear drums with the defiant pleasure of the soft noise it births. He imagines this one beside him, a tall one with a hat, with its amber-colored drink—bourbon?—wouldn’t know the fine print of chaos, should he choose so appropriately to demonstrate it for him. He wonders this in a great many creative ways, unblinking, perched with the curve of his shoulder like a statue, poised there and leaning. Silent as a graveyard.
Mostly through out the entirety of a bleak, tedious day, his imagination welters and crests. The wolf wonders what the consequence would be to simply take this ones drink from his withered, pretentious hand (has it ever seen a day of work?)… right in front of him as he watches, charmlessly goggling, humorless and blank like a brand new journal.
Instead, the quiet one just goes upstairs. In his shabby suit, his sadly, worn-out suit, weathered faintly with age, for it’s the suit he’s owned for years and only worn on special occasions. Nothing special ever happens in his jail-gray life…
And he wants to see the secrets laden here in this fine home, with its deep colors and tamarind odors, surely there are many in these walls?
So he slithers like desert sage, smoking around corners like an apparition, eyes like a viper ascending the echoing stairs. His eyes are quicksilver and wide to absorb every detail; he’s not supposed to be up here, probably. Only shadows powerlessly watch him trespass. That’s what excites him most. He realizes he must choose what door first to enter in, and vows to keep the metallic moan of the doorknob low… eeny, meenie, miny, moe.