names so deep and names so true
Rather than seated at his desk, stewing broodily over some document or other, uncharacteristically Cian was standing at the great window behind his desk, gazing out at the city. Hands clasped loosely behind his back, shoulders straight and head held high—the posture of a soldier—the Eye regards the columns and spires that shoot from the city without expression. His clothes are perfectly pressed, his hair styled in what looks as though it took no time at all, though in reality likely took more than a few moments. On his desk, there is a cold cup of coffee and a cigarette which was once lit, and then left to burn out on its own.
Outwardly, he moves not at all, save for a slow and controlled intake of breath.
Inside though Cian's mind is a firestorm.
Outwardly, he moves not at all, save for a slow and controlled intake of breath.
Inside though Cian's mind is a firestorm.
THE EYE
they're blood to me they're dust to you
