you are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world
”It is now,” he says, his voice dropping to something dark and soft as he watches the ruin of pages and ink almost hiding the key. He stumbles as she leads them forward, nearly tottering over when she has to lean down and retrieve his door key, but then suddenly the lock is clicking and the door is swinging open and Finn is home.
He doesn’t make sense, standing in the space, filthy and sweaty and sick, treading ash onto the dark floorboards. But everything else does - his apartment is built upon two levels, cooped up in a tower as he is. The bottom portion is clearly a working space, lined with thick rugs and bookshelves, and one side of the area is dominated by a blackboard and a sprawling desk. His reports and research cover the desk, and a mixture of compositions and more notes are chalked onto the board.
Finn’s space speaks of neatness and minimalism, of everything having a place. His apartment is clean and bare precisely because his mind is not, and up a small wooden staircase (against the bottom of which leans a guitar), spiralling away into the pointed loft, the end of a neatly made bed can be spied.
The Spyglass trembles, like the sight of the place hurts because it’s all he’s wanted, and unless Tobi stops him he’ll sag to the ground. ”I don’t want to go out again,” he whispers.
He doesn’t make sense, standing in the space, filthy and sweaty and sick, treading ash onto the dark floorboards. But everything else does - his apartment is built upon two levels, cooped up in a tower as he is. The bottom portion is clearly a working space, lined with thick rugs and bookshelves, and one side of the area is dominated by a blackboard and a sprawling desk. His reports and research cover the desk, and a mixture of compositions and more notes are chalked onto the board.
Finn’s space speaks of neatness and minimalism, of everything having a place. His apartment is clean and bare precisely because his mind is not, and up a small wooden staircase (against the bottom of which leans a guitar), spiralling away into the pointed loft, the end of a neatly made bed can be spied.
The Spyglass trembles, like the sight of the place hurts because it’s all he’s wanted, and unless Tobi stops him he’ll sag to the ground. ”I don’t want to go out again,” he whispers.
and that, I believe
is why you are in so much pain
FINN
