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This time, in this land swathed with red, over hungry scarlet roots that crawled and squirmed farther out, near in and by the bubbling lava with its droning heat fever, you stood a hollow imitation of languid. Languid, but thoroughly lacking of it. Though you had fallen for him first metaphorically, he fell first again in the physical sense, and this time you did not follow. In the back of your mind, you remembered when you left a note for him on the wooden dining table that said you would be fishing at the river, when harsh ploomphs of clouds scraped the blue paleness of the sky.
blah blah blah c!skephalo egg lore thoughts GO
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the dream smp..