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the_explorer) wrote2013-09-22 06:19 am
the_explorer) wrote2013-09-22 06:19 am
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Open scene, midnight. The future day is present. The curtain is drawn to reveal a man at a table, haggard and tired. The name is Mur and his current method of madness is writing. He is doing this hastily, scribbling all over his notebooks, not even bothering to type as is his usual preference.
But without the click-clack to propel him, he keeps glancing up every so often. The mark of a paranoid man. He has heard whispers all around him lately, one cannot blame him for paranoia. Liz is what calms him but Liz is not here. Is she? Perhaps she is the whispers. Perhaps she has drawn the curtain. Perhaps...
No. No more perhaps. He scribbles at his notebook even harder, attempting to distract himself. The pencil breaks, he sharpens it with his knife. Breaks, sharpen. Breaks, sharpen, then sting - he has slipped and cut himself. He fumbles around for something to help, he only finds oil stained dirty rags. This is why he needs Liz. Dear, dear Liz. Missing Liz. Where is she? Can she not sense his desperation?
If he shall bleed to death in this very spot, at least it shall be spent in waiting for his princess. His very last breath will be spent on her name. Would that not be ever so lovely? Of course, he is not bleeding very hard. But such doléances are how he must spend his time. After all, what else is there to do in this cursed lighthouse of his?
But without the click-clack to propel him, he keeps glancing up every so often. The mark of a paranoid man. He has heard whispers all around him lately, one cannot blame him for paranoia. Liz is what calms him but Liz is not here. Is she? Perhaps she is the whispers. Perhaps she has drawn the curtain. Perhaps...
No. No more perhaps. He scribbles at his notebook even harder, attempting to distract himself. The pencil breaks, he sharpens it with his knife. Breaks, sharpen. Breaks, sharpen, then sting - he has slipped and cut himself. He fumbles around for something to help, he only finds oil stained dirty rags. This is why he needs Liz. Dear, dear Liz. Missing Liz. Where is she? Can she not sense his desperation?
If he shall bleed to death in this very spot, at least it shall be spent in waiting for his princess. His very last breath will be spent on her name. Would that not be ever so lovely? Of course, he is not bleeding very hard. But such doléances are how he must spend his time. After all, what else is there to do in this cursed lighthouse of his?