Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
He sat at the table and waited, between maps of surrounding areas, of defensive mechanisms, ornaments and adornments of design meant to protect or destroy – and eventually, nestled amongst them, were sketches and outlines of toys. Quiet, silent, hushed as he looked them over, tilting his head to study and discern, removable schisms and contortions, familiar shapes of animals and creatures they’d seen hundreds of times. Rendered likenesses, created to be taken apart, and put back together. To sharpen and hone the mind? Was this amusing for children?
The beast couldn’t recall if he’d ever done the same – much more apt to picking up a wooden blade and immediately hitting friends with it, coming home bruised and beaten and laughing.
“I should be able to,” went along with a brusque nod, a furrowing of his brows in concentration. He placed his hands upon the table, then lifted them slightly, allowing the building of the gilded contortions to come to life – figments of the first, a little luxere draped in a vibrant, elegant blue. But instead of creating it in whole, they were coordinated in parts, sliding together with handles, meant to be hastened away and back again.
And while he worked, he wondered, over the makings of dreams, over the pondering of seasons gone by. “Not much. Kiada was the exception.” The inklings of a smile began to curl over his mouth, before he remembered she was gone, and then it too vanished.
A subject change then, eyes not lifting from the toy. “Have you thought about a memorial for Rex?”
The beast couldn’t recall if he’d ever done the same – much more apt to picking up a wooden blade and immediately hitting friends with it, coming home bruised and beaten and laughing.
“I should be able to,” went along with a brusque nod, a furrowing of his brows in concentration. He placed his hands upon the table, then lifted them slightly, allowing the building of the gilded contortions to come to life – figments of the first, a little luxere draped in a vibrant, elegant blue. But instead of creating it in whole, they were coordinated in parts, sliding together with handles, meant to be hastened away and back again.
And while he worked, he wondered, over the makings of dreams, over the pondering of seasons gone by. “Not much. Kiada was the exception.” The inklings of a smile began to curl over his mouth, before he remembered she was gone, and then it too vanished.
A subject change then, eyes not lifting from the toy. “Have you thought about a memorial for Rex?”
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
