Andrew Prior (hereforareason) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2012-12-04 11:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | !open, ~john mitchell (oe) |
Who: Gilbert and open.
Where: Close to the 'real' bookshop.
What: Feels, lots of them.
When: Monday evening.
Status: Open; moderate rating.
He'd had time to adjust to exactly fuck all and it made him want to hyperventilate. Another Annie - one who hadn't even bothered to talk him at all - which he could understand, Mitchell, Nina, George and even Eve, they were all here - which should have been a comfort, except it wasn't. Dead, dead, dead, dead, d-e-a-d. It crossed his mind every time his eye caught one of their names or whenever he spoke to one of them on the network. They were so close, yet so far. It made him want to lash out. But that was all just so human, actions most certainly not befitting a proper, seasoned ghost. So he just put his headphones on his ears, pressed 'play' and drowned the world out on the haunting chords of Bob Dylan turned Australian Chanson. And it was collar up, hands in his pockets and his ever present cigarette in his mouth as he went on a walk through the city, surrounded by rather melancholy twilight and ever growing shadows. He almost felt like he could breathe again, maybe talk without screaming. Maybe. But he'd never stop feeling guilty. Maybe the feeling that his hands were coated in someone else's blood would never go away. Should he have tried harder to find another answer to a really huge fucking problem that would have destroyed mankind? Maybe. And just fucking maybe, he was tired of it all and had been looking forward to going to the other side. Maybe not with his dignity intact, but it was something. And all those somethings had become his whole world for the past four years. Except nobody really, really knew him. He drew in a deep breath and turned course. Back to Annie - his fucking Annie. They had a kettle, mugs and tea. That was going to be good enough. |