Arrow Lake i want a boy who’s so drunk he doesn’t talk

“I suppose we’ll never know,” she tittered and breathed a small “yes,” in complete agreement with his mention of radiating, shining beauty. The druid recognized other more from the energetic imprint they left upon her rather than names, or faces. It was how this man’s identity registered in her deepest recesses, while his name and their meeting continued to escape her. Her perception of others was not limited to her five senses — she felt other’s presences before she saw them — so, yes, Olive knew exactly what he meant, and she respected it. 

Either way, if they were to remember each other, wouldn’t the gods have made it so? The tiny priestess had questioned the gods often as of late, but in this, she relented.

Drawing close, Olive found comfort in the unexplained familiarity. “Oh, in that case,” she chirped, “Perhaps it is best we remain… anonymous.” and, leaving no room for dispute, she carried the conversation to one of her favorite topics (second only to flattery from strange, yet familiar, men) — the moon, or, the lack thereof. “It’s a new moon.” This time, for her, always symbolized renewal; and there can only be renewal where there was once nothingness. Mother moon and her phases — the most dependable force on the planet. If the lunar goddess could perish every month, only to be reborn once more, then why couldn't she. “That’s why it’s so dark out.” she mentioned casually, as if everybody mused upon these types of things.