#interdimensiona

[leozztt]

🟣 

[bloodiedrhetoric]

Dinge Talk || Mason & Eugene

Every morning was a ritual. Every morning calloused, paint-ridden fingers carefully tied a set of fringed laces together. A loop, and then another, until a knot formed. It was an endless series of loops. One knot. Two knots. Until firmly laced. The final one  signaled the start of Mason’s day. At the moment his boots came on, his frayed cap was soon to follow. Then his jacket, a hastily made breakfast of bread and cheese, and a small jug of milk stuffed into the rear pocket of his jeans. Since the bird that often paid him a visit on his step wasn’t there this morning, he didn’t bother crumbling the remains of his bread. Maybe it had decided to die. Maybe the cold rain had made the little bird tire of London’s dreary weather and it had flown off in favor of brighter skies. He hadn’t seen it for three days, after all. Two bites was all it took to finish his sandwich, the span it took Mason to clamber down his steps. He counted these things. To him, life was as methodical as building furniture from scratch or putting up drywall. The more he knew inconsequential details in his life like the bird he had accidentally befriended, the more he knew about himself. The nonsense kept him sane. He’d think about that bird today. He was sure of it. While he was going to labour away at the little bookstore’s bathroom for the next two days, he’d be thinking about other birds he befriended. Thinking about the way they chirped as though on cue each morning at 6 A.M. How he’d taken a handful of nails and a hammer and threatened to smash one’s beak in, once. And how he’d nursed a tiny baby bird on his walk home one late afternoon, huddling it into his stained t-shirt to protect it from the wind.

The thoughts followed him right into his truck, into traffic, and right to the door of the shop -- gum in place, chewing, and thinking about birds. Save for a few tools on his utility belt, Mason didn’t haul anything further indoors with him. He had already setup his workspace, all the materials provided. The paint, the flooring, the vinyl adhesive. He had to get the vinyl laid down before he could put the new toilet in. For now, the bathroom was out of order because the only place people could piss was a hole in the stall. Not that many people had frequented the deteriorating washroom to begin with. Which was where Mason came in. He was acknowledged with a nod by the owner as he made his entrance, greeted by a cluster of books emanating an archaic, musty scent. It was comforting, he supposed. But it stood little chance against the smell of sawdust or fresh paint. 

Everything was in place as he had left it the day before, not an item touched. To mess with any of Mason's Lloyd's toys was a sentence worse than death. One item out of place often meant a very frustrated, grumbling Brit (not that he wasn't already), flinging curses left and right and causing reckless endangerment to the project at hand. But here his haven was, in all it's gross and unfinished glory, awaiting him. He brushed the floor with his boot, sweeping at any collecting dust before grabbing the broom that was placed delicately against the wall. With his dust mask in place, he swept the dust to one corner pulling at the flooring to reveal the subfloors beneath. The flooring was cheap vinyl, vinyl that had already begun to peel and bubble and become worn by the constant splash of water. The solution? An expensive alternative, one that involved grout and laying the tiles piece by piece as opposed to self-stick. It was going to be a long day but a good one. Truthfully, his day was always good as long as it meant working peacefully on a project with little room to be disturbed.

[ofignorance-blog]

I know we aren't mutuals but still your muse is legit funny af, I'm always intrigued with writers who write muses that are so realistic and you could see on the street so props to you!

-looks left-

-looks right-

-look right at you-

-disbelieving laugh- ok but who the fuck are you talking to?