#patchworkman01.

[rntal-blog]

without prefacing it with so much as an ah-hem to announce that he’s present, b is planted in place a couple feet away and saying, inflectionless,  ‘ you got a super weird vibe going.  ---  please don’t rent that one. ’

@patchworkman,  random.

[agrievousfault]

@patchworkman ; og thread.

            come from somewhere,  of course. but it’s startling how little that can,  does mean.  “ sure,  vladivostok.  you can’t hear it,  can you. ” he raises a fist up under his chin and flicks his middle finger against the skin,  makes an exaggerated popping sound.  granted,  dimi does not sound russian because this body isn’t russian,  but all the same:  “ your people don’t have to be who you are. ”

          language twists and becomes more like a weapon. what they’re saying exists in all the in between; the translations. “no,” he starts, an answer to both question and statement. “i suppose not, but if we’re not who we are, then who are we -- ? do we exist at all?” lifting his gaze again, tomas smiles. one of those disarming ones, when he knows he’s treading lines he shouldn’t, and somewhere in the back of his head he can hear marcus scolding him. but marcus isn’t here and he can handle himself. “do you exist -- ?”

[losmuerte-blog]

         they cant their head and watch him. debating. shifting. who is who is who -- ? a viper’s hiss steals from their lips before she makes herself fully known. all smiles, all teeth. we is here. he knows of we. he is a we all his own. same person, different faces. flash, flash, glitch -- all him. she likes him. he fits and doesn’t fit. he fits himself, but not what’s around him. he fits his skins.

                   “i think,” she mimics him, fingers and all. “that’s a good answer.” 

      reds and blues and greens and all that static. they stir, stretch, and vibrate with life -- a testament to his answer --  and she beckons with an easy flick of her wrist. 

                  “drink with me.” // @patchworkman ( cont. )

[skhism]

         ‘ uh --- ! ’ bertie gives dimi’s hand  ---  claw, isn’t it, really  ---  a light, swift smack, then curls all but her index finger on the upswing to catch him with a threatening point. no doubting that she means business thanks to the sternness of her voice, the narrowing of her eyes. ‘ you best fuckin’ behave. ’

@patchworkman,  sc.