Two Eyes Cenote Does he speak to you now?

she chides him on calling himself a bachelor; that it was a term reserved for those who had never been husbands. fair enough, but he was too haughty to admit that she was right. my kind? ingram resounds with a barking laugh that tapers into a scoff; wiry grin tugging at the edges of his lips; honeyed and matching her slyness.

failed goods, perhaps. because recycled might impose that he had turned into something better after each failed attempt: and he had not.

once; with intention. ingram admits; a few more time accidentally not withstanding. and it was not for marriage. instead, it led to the rise of basilica ... and cursed it to fall.

or perhaps, he ponders, he was the curse and it was just easier to blame the threadbones. the dreadfather. the ancestors. always his personal scape goats.

a slight lift of his chin is given, flashes of the image: of a bloody, thorny crown, piercing the flesh of his brow behind his eyes. there and gone in the same breadth of a moment that it appeared. it does not seem wise to use them for personal gain. even if that conclusion in and of itself was selfish.

a draw of a breath; the refocus of his seaglass gaze upon him.

you seem to have taken an interest in my romantic endeavors, he drawls. what of yours?