Woke up this morning with a small, distant voice drifting through my head, singing, singing. Here, the sad lilt of an aria, a little Italian that I know and she knows better, hummed idly at half voice that still shimmers from the influence of her aborted training. She was good. I bet she could have had a career.
I'm coaxing a few more sketches, too, and god damn, she looks so young on the page. It seems a shame, to have not even two decades on the face of this planet when the civilization that raised you collapses overnight and the monsters are suddenly worse than you've even imagined.
I do terrible things in fiction. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
auto_destruct is equally culpable, here. To be fair.)
Need to get some fixative for these sketches so they don't smear all over the bloody place like they are already doing.
I'm coaxing a few more sketches, too, and god damn, she looks so young on the page. It seems a shame, to have not even two decades on the face of this planet when the civilization that raised you collapses overnight and the monsters are suddenly worse than you've even imagined.
I do terrible things in fiction. (
auto_destruct is equally culpable, here. To be fair.)Need to get some fixative for these sketches so they don't smear all over the bloody place like they are already doing.