Duck Lake kind of wishing that i never did saturday

i was writing this offhandedly in docs i didn't see how long it seemed until i put it in preview LMAO

his peripatetic spirit always persisted; and thus to his own devices with no qualms.

@Reverie, who had found husband in the novel coywolf told him briefly of her overdue departure when they crossed paths. there was no love lost, and after keenly flitting his eye over @Dusty Rose for any aftertastes of subterfuge, he picked himself up, and would carry on.

the satyr had found unlikely refuge under her willows, but promptly picketed a fine line the ice until he was alone on an icedrift of self-making away at sea, as if he was the last ice merchant of chimborazo with a devotion to a lost tradition.

nothing had changed.

he glanced at the forest that was in the armpit of swiftcurrent creek without any longing.

he had not mastered his need for connection, just as hadn’t gotten over his insubstantial grudges that filtered out into unimpressive “top 15 reasons on why you should pity me” soliloquies scribbled on the back of some throw away documents, but those were long buried somewhere else in there.


he wasn’t some tortured soul whose eyes were still sticky with pre-birth; as hollow and underused as his muscles were. sardonic smiles, rather vaunting, dally over his head the hold they had over his youth.

he still missed his vater in a boyish way he did not like to admit. again.

he was never disciplined well, he was told, and he was a deeply disturbed child, it showed.

but he had chosen to physically move on. hoping the ceiling of his thoughts would be whitewashed with a vigilance, no traces of anything that lived there, coated with depressing neutral “monochrome zoo nursery” aesthetic off of pinterest.

so he would ignore, and keep ignoring, and ignore himself right into his (early) grave.

the clap of lakewater sounded at his ankles grew closer to druid at the lip of the lake.

he chased the injured duck in the shallows. the quarry of the day picked the lucky five-card hand today as well, as his habitual headaches were unceremoniously shotput through his head again.

suddenly the world turned into dishwater, wet and blurry, as he grunted faintly and sewed his eyes shut, hanging his head in a stilled, pained manner.