7 Works by falseaxiom
Listing Works
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Summary
For a writer, there are a lot of words Jim never quite manages to say.
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Evenings were never beautiful until Adrien could get close enough to feel them.
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The beginnings of a significant (if slightly confusing) rapport, anatomized in seven parts.
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"You're fucking with me, aren't you?"
"Unfortunately, no. I've been plagued with this heaping pile of useless, irrelevant information for lifetimes upon lifetimes, and it's about time you join me in the hellish quarantine zone that some dare to call 'reminiscence'."
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You spot her on a ship drawing close, as buoyant as yours is sunk. Her hair reaches her hips when the wind is still, and it billows out behind her like a cape when the wind is not. Her horns are tall, one pointed, one pinched. Her glasses are large and round. Your spyglass tells you all of this. And, though you know too little, you already admire her too much.
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You know binary backwards and forwards. You know how to write programs that could lay a universe to waste. You know how to make skulls crack and buildings crumble without lifting a finger.
You know many things, but you do not know the inner workings of the blind and hysterical.
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When he's not constantly spewing expletives at every passerby, be they human or troll (but never carapacian--the Mayor is too precious to yell at), you always find him in the commons. He sits on the couch in a particular way: one leg folded under him, the other dangling off the edge, not quite reaching the floor. A novel about as thick as your arm, the title different (and strangely lengthy) every time, rests in his lap. He never notices you when you first walk in.