HE TRUDGES ALONG IN SOME FAR-FLUNG HAZE, the structures of this city in all their dazzling array like some phantom image in his peripherals, as if it were nothing particularly unusual to behold. that is until the strangest sight of a familiar face awaits in the distance, buried amidst the crowd, much alike the specters which haunt his every step — were she not so abundantly real. should he find himself angered at this finding, he wonders? once more beneath an ever watchful gaze, planned from the beginning of their encounters, and meant to keep his very existence in check unless written within a script of nigh divine construct. or perhaps he should be relieved? to know that even here, elio's reach may still find its way like the vines which creep through a temple of decay, were all the stage and his actors the same.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀but maybe this city can already give what he wants—
❝ Kafka. Is this part of his script, too? ❞ she would know better than him, he rationalizes, arms across his chest as he halts his strides to the wayside where she stands. ❝ This city is strange. Entering it... those feelings. They don't plague me like back there. ❞ nor does he feel himself sewn to an unwanted life. at least, he can tell, not one like he has only known for so long now.
@whisperins
