/andrey's interjection pulls royce out of the lake of his solipsism, halting the process of his monologue. royce glances up from the blueprint, staring briefly at andrey — wide-eyed, calibrating. then, he lowers his head again, more interested in the art than the artist — or the artist's brother, royce can't quite recall. "oh, don't take what i said personally. it's merely a statistical inevitability, really … not — not a reflection of your skill." distracted & rambling, royce waves a hand carelessly in the air, brandishing his nonchalance like an unconvincing olive branch. andrey's skill & his brother's vision as architects were each undeniable, but against whim — neither skill nor vision held any meaning. royce has long understood this empirically. "you and i, well — we both know … nothing's constant in cloudbank, nothing — except change itself. no matter how ugly or how beautiful, how intuitive or labyrinthine, people will get … bored, entirely bored — of what you make." he leans closer to the surface of the table, bending over to scrutinize & absorb the blueprint's details. his voice grows softer, trailing with a lilt, or a trace of bitterness. "then, they'll forget about it. if you try to make it memorable, then — they'll just forget about you, too. it's all replaceable, all replaceable." a fleeting silence. a pause. royce straightens himself, realizing suddenly just how intimate the distance between him and the blueprint had been. he's reluctant to look away, but his gaze flits to andrey once more. the olive branch is dried & withering. "this is your work, yes?"
