You're so cold
but you feel alive
It was a hypnotic sound, the swishing of the broom. Like a pulse. A gentle rhythm. A beating heart. Each tinkle as glass shifted against glass was a counterpoint, a prompt, a soft plea to some silent performer to take up the song. Play along, hum out a tune, sing the hymn of a memory battered and bruised, but not quite dead.
Not yet.
"Are you giving up on this place?" she asked calmly, returning questions with a question and not even deigning to reply when her answer was already there, obvious in the simple fact of her presence. Of course she would help clean up. More important was whether he was about to murder this dream for good. Give it the deathstroke with his own hands.
Losing the stock of drink was not the end of the world, and Sunjata should know this. Plenty enough people would be more than happy to trade with the bar, would offer their help and support in rebuilding, if he asked them. Something for something, was the universal, unwritten law of the Hollowed Grounds, and Sunjata had given them all a place to shelter, relax, find solace and make merry.
But it meant little if he would not put in the work to make it happen.
Not yet.
"Are you giving up on this place?" she asked calmly, returning questions with a question and not even deigning to reply when her answer was already there, obvious in the simple fact of her presence. Of course she would help clean up. More important was whether he was about to murder this dream for good. Give it the deathstroke with his own hands.
Losing the stock of drink was not the end of the world, and Sunjata should know this. Plenty enough people would be more than happy to trade with the bar, would offer their help and support in rebuilding, if he asked them. Something for something, was the universal, unwritten law of the Hollowed Grounds, and Sunjata had given them all a place to shelter, relax, find solace and make merry.
But it meant little if he would not put in the work to make it happen.
lay your hands on me
one last time
MAEA
