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

[ A smart man that Adrian Veidt, anticipating the future with almost as much precision as Amory and his dreams. Of course he doesn't greet him, not even lifting his eyes to meet Adrian's face as he walks up to the blond. It's not avoidance of an uncertain kind nor of shame, but avoidance through indifference-- Amory looks just as interested in Adrian as he does in snubbing out the burning end of cigarette. With a flick, gray ash settles an inch beside his boot, conscious movements to avoid dispensing them anywhere past the invisible line that divides the pair. ]

Put it out.

[It's an order but hardly one delivered for his own personal amusement. There's just no smoking inside the library, wall of books and all. They're going inside because trading photos in the lobby, while possible with the right amount of effort, is still a risk. Amory may be concerned about his sexual escapades but the photograph in his possession concerns a turning point in Adrian's life, one he barely talks about with anyone.]

No need to tell me.

[ Because Amory's already put it out, moving aside to empty the butt in a trashcan bordering the entrance of the library. He pays more respect to books than to people at times, as evident by him not waiting for Adrian. Making a direct course toward a room tucked to the right of the lobby, a route marked in memory, he maintains a brisk stride without a single glance at the other. He expects him to follow. ]

[Adrian follows with no protest, no insult, nothing to express any displeasure he has with Amory because that's not his concern right now. That Amory has gone through something taxing recently doesn't escape Adrian, but he's not the kind to ask the other man about it. Leave well enough alone. Usually that's the theme.]

Here.

[Adrian expects Amory to stop in the alcove of books. It's quiet, solitary, a publicly private place.

[ A place he's given hours to when the roar and clatter of the City and its raucous residents become too loud. However, today's trip has a different motive, and he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans to slip out the photo, crisp and straight in an unmarked envelope. He can't deny he hadn't studied it, but only for the purpose of discover the owner. It almost seems as though the deities map out connections between their citizens, for why else would both of them receive memories of the other? Coincidence, perhaps-- but it's hard to believe anything to be of mere coincidence in a place like this. ]

Take it.

[ With the enveloped slipped between his fingers, Amory holds it out to the other, gaze meeting the others green eyes for the first time today. The rest of his expression, on the other, maintains its obvious indifference. ]

[It's a matter of public knowledge that his parents died when he was still a teenager. This is the price one pays for being such a public figure. But to have a copy of that moment in anyone's possession save for his own is unacceptable. Unlike Amory, Adrian does not have Amory's photo in an envelope. He does however trade it face down while accepting his own.]

It's yours.

[If he could read thoughts or know things before they happen like Jon, Adrian would be fascinated by the same idea; that the City itself is aware of even the most private connections. They are all puppets to some extent, and a few are desperate to see the strings.]

[ That statement is true only in the context of his world. To Amory, Adrian had been a complete unknown prior to the the mistletoe, Manhattan still a concrete jungle in his reality just as it had been twenty years earlier. The significance of the latter has no place in Amory's knowledge, of course. He still knows little about Adrian Veidt, even after examination of the picture; the engravings were too indistinct to reveal who had died. Adrian's expression veiled by the perspective. He knows far too little and far too much, he notes with the discreet tightening of his lips. ]

Thanks.

[ He offers courtesy in measured platitudes tonight, and almost every night, accepting his picture in exchange for the other. It lingers in Amory's hand a moment, grip in a slight bend as if suggesting he would crush it. Hesitation holds him back, and he slips the photograph into a front pocket.

[Were he to view this situation as an outsider, Adrian would revel in the contradiction. Too little and too much, two completely opposite sides of the spectrum. He has always known reality is a gray area, having to compromise to reach something close to ideal. One could say it gives him a rush. One could say it's because he is never happy.]

It was nothing.

[Adrian's tone is calm, not facetious. It was nothing to him because he'd already known a little bit about the extent of Amory's inclinations. Should he express his gratitude in return? Probably, but he doesn't.]

[ fifty-one ]

never gonna give you up;

never gonna give you up;

never gonna give you up;

never gonna give you up;

never gonna give you up;

never gonna give you up;

never gonna give you up;

never gonna give you up;