fatespoken | [ fifty-one ]

∞ [ private to self][ not hackable ]

[ as noted on a private entry on his device ]

TO BUY:
→ Cat Food
→ Ledge?
or
→Picture Frames
→ Captain Morgan
→ Gloves

[ on the table in his living room, placed on top of a photograph there's small sheet of paper covered in neat handwritten print— ]

Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die,
I have travel’d a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you,
For I could not die till I once look’d on you,
For I fear’d I might afterward lose you.

(Now we have met, we have look’d, we are safe;
Return in peace to the ocean, my love;
I too am part of that ocean, my love—we are not so much separated;
Behold the great rondure—the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour, carrying us diverse—yet cannot carry us diverse for ever;
Be not impatient—a little space—Know you, I salute the air, the ocean and the
land,
Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.)

-- that's the one you liked, wasn't it? I remember.

[/private]

∞ [ private to peter pevensie ][ not hackable]

I found a picture of yours.

[/private]

∞ [ private to shilo ][ not hackable ]

Hey, Shilo. I think I have something that belongs to you.

[/private]

∞ [ private to adrian veidt ][ not hackable]

If you want it, ~~I'll drop it~~ come pick it up tomorrow. Otherwise it's going in the trash.

[/private]

∞ [ private to eden ][ not hackable ]

I have one of your pictures. You don't have to answer this if you don't want to. I'll slip it into your mailbox, otherwise.

[/private]

Wasn't that bad of a curse this time around, assuming you aren't some type of water creature. I'm referring to the deluge of photos, not the collective fashion disaster. For all their misgivings and idiotic April Fools jokes, you have to at least admire the ingenuity of some of their tricks. The logistics of plucking specific memories from an entire City full of people, transposing them photo form is hardly simple. To stick their hands into our brains, so many brains, without fucking anything up, admittedly takes skill.

Still, most of their tricks are moronic and pointless.

A LATER EDIT: No, it's not 80's night at the Blue Light. No, you won't get a discount if you come in costume.

[ ooc: Backdated to Saturday around 7 PM? The links in the private entry are real links, except pretend they are from stores in the City.

He is also cursed and currently dressed in gray ACID (sob typo) wash jeans, chucks, oversized sweatshirt, and eyeliner. If you are a Broo Lightian, you are free to comment log. And laugh at the fact that his balls can't breathe. DX Yes, even his hair has more body. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Claire doesn't answer immediately - partially because she doesn't want to address the idea that bringing up this topic at all to someone like Amory might be less strange than bringing it up with anyone else, going off of experience - and instead spends some small amount of time chewing her lip and staring at the surface of the bar. When she looks up, her face is closed off and walled, and she tries hard to appear vacantly interested though she knows she's terrible at it. It doesn't help that those words - two thousand years - sink into her guts like stones.]

I don't know how you can say that's only essentially immortal.

[There are more questions, more answers that she wants, but Amory isn't the friend. More often than not, Amory is the enemy. Not necessarily as violent and terrifying as someone like Sylar, but still someone that she dislikes, someone that she doesn't trust. She pushes back off the bar, one hand on a high-backed chair.]

I should get to work.

[ Amory allows Claire her space of silence as he takes to cleaning a short stack of dirty glasses, water streaming against the backdrop of dragging seconds. He's undecided whether to continue or to sever the conversation at its current point. Indecision, in this case, is a matter of considering if there's really a point to it all, or if his words are falling on deaf ears. Given who he is and his track record, Amory's opinion could be valued at empty syllables for Claire. Hardly a surprise. It's minutes before he answers, even as he considers that she may have already left. ]

Because he could have died. Anytime century, any year, he could have decided enough was enough. [ Shutting off the faucet in a quick movement, he remains standing there in a stance betraying no emotion-- shoulders still, back straight. ] And yet, he found reasons good enough to prefer living.

[Her immediate reaction is to snap with something caustic, but Claire bites down on her tongue until it probably would hurt if she was capable of processing that anymore. It only serves to bring her back down to the ground, clear her head, level her mind. She's envious, wants to say something about how nice it must be to be able to have the choice, and for her it's as much a matter of logistics and as it is matter of necessity: someone needs to be there to keep people like Sylar from getting back up again.

She stares at the cleaned glasses, evening April sunshine from the windows glaring over the curved surfaces. Claire doesn't trust Amory enough to address anything with any degree of honesty, to open up and let him in in any capacity, so she slams the door shut, even if her expression betrays all the electric, working currents running through her mind.]

I have to get back to work. [A pause, and Claire pushes off of the chair, high top shoes scuffing across the floor.] Thanks again for the picture.

[She lingers one more moment, opening her mouth to say something else - she's trying to find reasons, too, as many as she can - but thinks better of it, gives him a half-formed nod, and then moves to check her section.]

[ fifty-one ]

time won't give me time;

time won't give me time;

time won't give me time;