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location : six mile bar time : late afternoon, early evening, late evening. any acceptable drinking time. for : open ( @fordbaycontent )

“man, you would not believe the day i’m having!” ezra groans, an exaggerated weariness in all her movements as she drops into the empty seat. slumped, she lets out a deep sigh before straightening again, trying to look attentive. “what’re you drinking?” there’s still a plaintive note in her voice, even as she contemplates what to order.

#✩ interactions ∖ starter .#fordbaycontent #.... not my best work lbr but it's what we're workin with #wanted to keep it short n vague idk ! i'm nervous and overexplaining !#also if we havent plotted yet ( or if we have ) feel free to assume connections idk !#alcohol cw /

location: faraday gallery status: open to all @fordbaycontent

The idea was to get inspired. Or at least, that’s what he has himself convinced of when he decides to settle down in the remote and random location. If it were possible, Lai would have literally found a place that was the most distance from his family and settled down there without a doubt. For now, Fordbay was that to him -- no matter how much he tried to convince the people around it it was merely for inspiration for his work -- it was a reprieve from the expectations in his personal life. His work had been untouched for months to be fair. He wrote a sentence and promptly pushed it aside for another few months. Rinse and repeat. The point was he was not producing enough work for his agent to get off his back and stop emailing him frantically on his whereabouts. The idea was to get enough muse for anything at this point to be able to produce something so he could buy himself more time. With the dry spell he was having, he calculated that if he even wrote a chapter or two or nonsense he would be able to get a few more months question free.

Lai was a writer, not a strategist. Granted, his reasoning and scheming might not be the best but Faraday Gallery had some really beautiful art. If anything could amp up his creative juices certainly it could be vicariously living through other creative beings. After a wander about it becomes apparent he is not going to somehow soak in the auras of the creators who poured their heart and souls into their walk. There is a defeatist sigh when he sinks to a bench head thrown back as he tries to come up with a legitimate excuse to tell his publishing agent. He broke his finger and therefore couldn’t possibly be expected to write?