Would you call anything in that particular basement beautiful? Perhaps unconsciousness itself was the beautiful thing.
[The sleep that allowed them to Escape From All Of That, because frankly even with his experiences or possibly even with their experiences combined it wasn't exactly a picnic and Subete certainly wouldn't have called twenty years of that anywhere near his to-do list. There were certainly memorable moments, flashes, but even now so much of it is hazy under miasma and barriers and swirled together like a great big potpourri of not-so-living darkness.
It's better not to think too hard about the places he went when he was down there; better for now to concentrate on what's in front of him, and the scant things that were bright and flashing enough or perhaps simply maddening enough to float to the top in that particular sea.
And that's just what he does. He doesn't have to spare too much thought for the menu itself, despite the upcoming need to order main courses, the mystery of Japanese-American fusion cuisine and terms (tapas certainly isn't something that comes up in the menus back home, as far as he can remember); so he spends the moments watching the atmosphere and the shifting shades of the conversation, head leaned on a hand.]
Hmm, those are about as close to the classics as you'll get. I'll call that rounding out the spread nicely until we can get to the main event.
[His taste is so old but Subete's commentary is incidental, letting one corner of his mouth turn up in not-quite-a-smirk. He's still recollecting bits and pieces of himself throughout the evening, like the day and ride had blown some dust off but also scattered things everywhere, but there are some things he can do reflexively as well, courtesy of perhaps too much practice.]
This, though, this is the bare minimum when you're looking for a night of drinking and company. [the curve of his mouth grows, like a shadow] It would be a pity if you thought this was the best I could do.
no subject
[The sleep that allowed them to Escape From All Of That, because frankly even with his experiences or possibly even with their experiences combined it wasn't exactly a picnic and Subete certainly wouldn't have called twenty years of that anywhere near his to-do list. There were certainly memorable moments, flashes, but even now so much of it is hazy under miasma and barriers and swirled together like a great big potpourri of not-so-living darkness.
It's better not to think too hard about the places he went when he was down there; better for now to concentrate on what's in front of him, and the scant things that were bright and flashing enough or perhaps simply maddening enough to float to the top in that particular sea.
And that's just what he does. He doesn't have to spare too much thought for the menu itself, despite the upcoming need to order main courses, the mystery of Japanese-American fusion cuisine and terms (tapas certainly isn't something that comes up in the menus back home, as far as he can remember); so he spends the moments watching the atmosphere and the shifting shades of the conversation, head leaned on a hand.]
Hmm, those are about as close to the classics as you'll get. I'll call that rounding out the spread nicely until we can get to the main event.
[His taste is so old but Subete's commentary is incidental, letting one corner of his mouth turn up in not-quite-a-smirk. He's still recollecting bits and pieces of himself throughout the evening, like the day and ride had blown some dust off but also scattered things everywhere, but there are some things he can do reflexively as well, courtesy of perhaps too much practice.]
This, though, this is the bare minimum when you're looking for a night of drinking and company. [the curve of his mouth grows, like a shadow] It would be a pity if you thought this was the best I could do.