Tyrants help build us

Bastien

How you lost your mind,
and your wrists got bruised

There was certainly a lot to think about and if Bastien let it, a lot to weigh down on his mind; Azrael had left, making Rexanna's absence all the more felt, tensions were apparently blooming between the Ascended and everyone else, Wessex was stepping down, marking a new era for the Grounds...a period of change and transition. He had never been a fan of them, for all his philosophical easygoing talk of letting life take you where it wanted to.

He didn't have that many close friends left nearby to talk to anymore, so he painted out the thoughts onto canvas; a dark, muddy brown with various textures, marks, lines - and just faintly, just beginning to take form, buildings and people; black vague shapes in the dusky night. Absorbed in his work, the thought player tinkling out some old piano tune he half remembered from a dance in Venice, Bastien was curled up on a stool, reaching forward with his hand to occasionally add flecks of colour.

Hardly a masterpiece, but it'd pass some hours on. Finally pulling his eyes from it, he washed his brush in a pot by his side and looked to the door - only to see someone there. "Oh, hello. I didn't know you were here; please, come in."

And you wanted better love,
well it's sleeping in your bedroom