TheIllusive Man seldomsleeps. As puppeteer &illusionist,he prefers to work the strings while everyone else rests. At hischair, he works quietly. Diligently. Watching, waiting, listening.It's lonely at times, pretending to be a God with the best {worst }intentionsin mind.
There'sa time in the night where everything goes still. He finds his eyelidsgrowing heavy.A dull pain ebbs &flows throughout his veins. A reminder of how fraillife truly is, but then:he feels a weight. Amounted to a cancerous growth in his lap. Awoman.
Hecannot recall how she got here. These days, he cannot recall much.Not with the static in his head &the muffled screams of a locustproxy.Under her, he squirms.Discomfort made apparent, he fidgets beneath long legs that go on formiles.Fingers drum his arm rests. His cigarette is forgotten &liesdeadon the floor. Another shattered life.
Itmakes him more vulnerable than the universe thinks him to be.
❝You'vemade for a convenientalarm clock.❞
Jackrecovers well. All grace &somecharm. A corner of his mouth curls into a half-smile indicating wryamusement. He's not afraid to touch her. His sin isn't women. Hedoesn't sweat in the glory of what's beautiful. What's dangerous.His palm settles on her knee. Patriarchal. Bond-like.
❝Iadvise you don't go through what isn't yours.❞
Hislife's work ripefor the picking.
