“ does your brain ever just crap out on you? ”
thought fogs against the glass separating words from tongue & fingers itch to press around his throat like a tic, his body trying to remind him he’s alive by puppeting his limbs to root for a pulse. the question warren peels out in that rounded out dulcet thrum from his mouth rings true. « mmm » is all he manages [ a tired acknowledgement that someone has spoken. ] he watches the angel’s ruffle of plumage, tracing the weary paths of rain & reaches out to interrupt a crystal stream of water with a broad thumb, unselfconscious about realizing the impulse. they sit shoulder to shoulder & the press of flesh against his own serves as an anchor, not a means for further submergence. knowing warren’s quick mind will parse through to his intention, « there are times--- » his damned cumbersome prosody [ mist in the mind ] unable to form the words properly, « there are times i think i’d be better off if you spoke for me. » a tease & an admission.