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i write sins, not tragedies.
[ London, 2063.
The fog is thick tonight. It paints the world a particular shade of gray that blends streets and buildings together, so much that the glow of the street lamps seem to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
A curious thing that you see though, is the sight of a young man in his mid-twenties, dressed in a deep crimson suit as he comes to a stop at one corner. There's a distinct click as he lights up a cigarette, the same hand that stows the gunmetal Zippo back in his pocket fishing out a phone that he brings to his ear. ]
All quiet on my end.
The fog is thick tonight. It paints the world a particular shade of gray that blends streets and buildings together, so much that the glow of the street lamps seem to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
A curious thing that you see though, is the sight of a young man in his mid-twenties, dressed in a deep crimson suit as he comes to a stop at one corner. There's a distinct click as he lights up a cigarette, the same hand that stows the gunmetal Zippo back in his pocket fishing out a phone that he brings to his ear. ]
All quiet on my end.
no subject
It is pretty fuckin' quiet around here. Maybe we should make some noise. [ she laughs a little and rubs the tip of the bat, admiring it like it's her god (it is). ]
sorry so late
He's got his eye on that bat. The blood on it can't be a good thing. ]