Re: Ocean's Eleven
[You skipped the sneaky chickflick cheek touch there, Lin. But that's okay. You were meant to. He wouldn't be Daniel without poetic and oh, so dramatic guilt, cool, wistful, and pale staring off into the distance. Unfortunately, he also wouldn't be Daniel if he wasn't perfectly aware of what he was doing. Daniel liked a bit of melodrama.
Not to say that was his only goal. He didn't actually want to talk anymore, and continued silence would do the trick eventually, even for Lin. Poor Lin had gone nearly as mad as Daniel in the silence of that old London house. (You could theorize silence, or lack of batteries, but silence is more poetic.)
Daniel didn't glance backward. He thought instead of destruction, which meant very little when you could buy and sell almost anything. It is impossible to conceive of the reality of life when absolutely nothing has value, because you have so much money that anything is for sale: love, death, any earthly desire you can name. Maybe that's the same thing as destruction, wiping out value.
The fucking shit he thought about when he was sober.
Still with no response, Daniel's breathing settled into a dull, reluctant rhythm. He shifted once more, restlessly, and then dropped his spine down into the rough cradle of the horrible mattress, gingerly rearranging the white-clad wrist. Then he let his head rest on top of Lin's, and shut his eyes.]