zephyr
Leafchange.
Which means Ludo.
Which means ghosts.
And frankly, you've got more than enough ghosts on your plate as it is. Hell, you've been haunted for the past six years, followed around by the faint sound of laughter and the constant thought of here's something else I can never share with him. Sure, the pain of it has dulled to an ache over time, one you can ignore and even forget about from time to time, but it'll never really be gone.
Anyway. All that to say, today you're doing Ludo Leafchange things, in hopes of keeping the damned rag happy and the ghosts of your loved ones at bay. You've chosen this spot because the little glass house was a favorite haunt of yours and Ray's; sometimes you would lie for hours looking at the light and telling stories about the shells that decorated the little house. Today you're sitting on the shore, far up the sandy spit, the structure in view but comfortably far just like all your mourning.
There's a whittling knife in your right hand and a bleached white piece of whale bone in the left. You're pondering the best way to begin carving it into a mask, eyeing the natural curves of the material and imagining designs cleverly etched within. Focused, in short, and utterly oblivious to the turn your day is about to take.
Ah, well. Peace was never meant to last.
Which means Ludo.
Which means ghosts.
And frankly, you've got more than enough ghosts on your plate as it is. Hell, you've been haunted for the past six years, followed around by the faint sound of laughter and the constant thought of here's something else I can never share with him. Sure, the pain of it has dulled to an ache over time, one you can ignore and even forget about from time to time, but it'll never really be gone.
Anyway. All that to say, today you're doing Ludo Leafchange things, in hopes of keeping the damned rag happy and the ghosts of your loved ones at bay. You've chosen this spot because the little glass house was a favorite haunt of yours and Ray's; sometimes you would lie for hours looking at the light and telling stories about the shells that decorated the little house. Today you're sitting on the shore, far up the sandy spit, the structure in view but comfortably far just like all your mourning.
There's a whittling knife in your right hand and a bleached white piece of whale bone in the left. You're pondering the best way to begin carving it into a mask, eyeing the natural curves of the material and imagining designs cleverly etched within. Focused, in short, and utterly oblivious to the turn your day is about to take.
Ah, well. Peace was never meant to last.
give your heart to a wanderer
who found your soul and called it home
who found your soul and called it home
