#!lemons

[neuroticsynth]

Singing--     to his heart's content, as always. Though today it is not for work; work is too bitter when one extends their efforts under the icy cold chill of Jack Frost's unbearable wrath. And Len dislikes the cold so much!    Today, he will take the bus home, because he is too cold-- too feeble to make it across a walking distance so often followed at the end of every hard day's work. Yes, it is too cold.    Puffs; clouds of smoke leave his breathless lips at the exhale of every note executed underneath his tongue. Should the apple of his throat vibrate with each resonance of a chord well played, he will relish in satisfaction-- pleasure, truly, for being able to hum a simple tune next to this lone bus stop at the front of Crypton's estate.                                  Singing sure takes away the long wait, neh?

[neuroticsynth]

{{ｇｈｏｓｔｉｎｇ〜＊

He will continue to abide by his limitation-- his...incapacity. Because he is not human, entirely, but carries the riding soul of one.                                         Synthetic glass will do him nothing to see past the metaphysical world. What he is obliged to witness is of the earth around him, of nature's habits, her typical schedule, and whatever arises within his dreams-- fragmented memories, or the demons that lurk in his nightmares.

     A chilling breeze brushes past the back of his neck despite him remaining within the warmth of his own home, goosebumps rising from his skin. Empty eyed, and so very distant, he listens closely, the static in his headphones slowly increasing in magnitude.                        What is this...                                                         ...disturbance?                                                                               There is a white noise present,                                                 but he cannot determine where it is coming from. Like a radio,        perhaps a little old and out dated, trying to catch a signal of something one will never hear.        Shaking off this unnatural feeling about his bones, the boy walks towards his kitchen, finishing off the work he had left behind, cleansing the counter top of his with a cloth; the result of a previous cooking experimentation.                   Never again will he attempt to make soup that regarded any tomatoes.