kaimana
how beautiful the leaves grow old
"If scribblin' makes her a scribbler, does lookin' for a suitable spot make you a looker?" Your question is earnest if not a little silly, a playful grin wrapping across your face. A grin that falters as the stranger seems determined to reject your caterpillar comparison, which is entirely perplexing because your love of caterpillars truly knows no bounds.
Before you can comment on good company in more ways than one seeming like an excessively long thing to want to be called, your eyes catch on the fangs. "Fangs!" you hiss to Oia, making no real effort to be subtle, eyes wide as saucers. "'Are you an ascended?"
how full of light and color are their last days
