Monday, March 15

He's sitting in a corner with his arms wrapped around his knees, socks and eyes red (the symbolism profound). You could swear he's been crying, but he'll deny it. His lips are fringed with blood thanks to Kale's endless wisdom. Outside it's December and cold and gray like death.

The soundtrack of this scene is silence. He doesn't focus, but the camera pans and the senses heighten. His hair is mussed, but not in the Hollywood styled way. You can imagine his hands ripping through it and a scream coming out of those crimson lips.

In the background is a gray cat licking her paw apathetically. To the rest of the world, he doesn't exist.


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