you are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world
You need to find the pee for your wound.
Finn isn't quite sure how to feel about that, but that's what Frey advised, and so he heads away to think. And to think some more.
He already knows what takes the sting away from his life - it's been the same thing for a long time, and precedes drugs and deep red wine and sleepless nights spent with a nose in a book.
But it hasn't felt right since comiing back from Torchline, and so he's avoided it. And wouldn't you believe it - things haven't gotten better.
So it's with his toes curling in his shoes that he stands outside his attic apartment, swallowing hard, not knowing what to expect within. Only when he does open the door it looks exactly how it always did, tidy but cluttered, everything in its own place. The blackboard is covered in research notes and half completed musical scores. The guitar leans against one wall.
It takes a little longer for Finn to pick up the instrument, just in case it still doesn't feel right, but all of that changes upon striking even the first chord. And then he's sidling up to his desk, taking some new music parchment and jotting down a few notes, a few experimental bars.
The Spyglass loses himself in the process of creating, of testing and practicing, and with Safrin's strings his apartment becomes something brighter and more colourful than it ever has been. By the time he's playing the song in its completion, he might have lost a day to it. And Finn cares not one jot.
Finn is playing this: Link!
Finn isn't quite sure how to feel about that, but that's what Frey advised, and so he heads away to think. And to think some more.
He already knows what takes the sting away from his life - it's been the same thing for a long time, and precedes drugs and deep red wine and sleepless nights spent with a nose in a book.
But it hasn't felt right since comiing back from Torchline, and so he's avoided it. And wouldn't you believe it - things haven't gotten better.
So it's with his toes curling in his shoes that he stands outside his attic apartment, swallowing hard, not knowing what to expect within. Only when he does open the door it looks exactly how it always did, tidy but cluttered, everything in its own place. The blackboard is covered in research notes and half completed musical scores. The guitar leans against one wall.
It takes a little longer for Finn to pick up the instrument, just in case it still doesn't feel right, but all of that changes upon striking even the first chord. And then he's sidling up to his desk, taking some new music parchment and jotting down a few notes, a few experimental bars.
The Spyglass loses himself in the process of creating, of testing and practicing, and with Safrin's strings his apartment becomes something brighter and more colourful than it ever has been. By the time he's playing the song in its completion, he might have lost a day to it. And Finn cares not one jot.
Finn is playing this: Link!
and that, I believe
is why you are in so much pain
FINN
