seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Russia
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from France
slow night
Ysolde leaned against the countertop, sighing. There was a disparaging number of customers at the Anchor's Weight. None of them particularly interesting.
She waited until she spotted someone with whom she could talk, she was bored, "Hullo," she said with a small smile. "What brings you here tonight? More importantly, what's keeping everyone else away?"
setting up a spectacle
Being observant, while also being sneaky, in most languages would fit the description of spying. It was also, however, conditional. Therefore on the conditions of that afternoon, it was simply watching.
As it was, in down-town Beaumaris, they had started setting up the tents for the multitudes of acts that would soon come to life. Those who swallowed fire, those who walked on air like some walked on earth; they would soon fill the colourful tents, and so would eyes that matched Ysolde's, filled with wonder.
The machinery created noises that contrasted with the beauty of the unmade circus, and the air was not yet that of popcorn and light, the atmosphere was instead borne of anticipation.
Ysolde looked around, she saw no one but workers just yet.
later laments
After her long and trying session with Dona Goodwin, Ysolde insisted that she would walk home. She didn't care if it was safe or not, the chill of the night would fix her. Ysolde was determined not to fall into the dependency-inducing pleasure of a nice drink. The anti-freeze to free her icy blood. She passed the Anchor's Weight without even glancing at it, although she was sure Mr. Awbrey would be needing help. Not everyone was so willed as she. She continued her walk, uninterrupted yet.
usual spot
It was a usually rainy walk, and it was expected that the cold would seep into her blood. It was a very usual evening, Ysolde walked briskly through the cold, on her way to meet Cedric.
Their meeting spot was the 811 shelf, and this was because they met over a common love for the itsy-bitsy spider. From then, it would progress to Shel Silverstein, and eventually Tennyson. Ysolde clutched in her arms a volume of James Stephens, and damned Cedric all over again for seeping into her the love for prose.
It was a distraction she couldn't afford any longer.
Entering the library, she greeted the woman at the desk with a small smile, and she made her busy way to 811. There she sat and pried the volume open to where she had left off.
It took her less than a minute to lose her concentration, after which, she was diluted just to waiting.
