[Conceded. Given life by way of fingers fell to that new page. His eyes remained -- downcast, supplication -- entranced by the new white that replaced regret, repression--
whatever the hell it was Liam was toiling through.]
"Perhaps not strange."
[The turn of phrase was odd, parsed clipped by a high and a wandering mind. His fingers trailed to the paper, caressing its edges with the same lackadaisical lull as his voice, his absent wandering thoughts.]
"Put out the torches; hide the moon, hide the stars."