❪ 𝑰𝒗𝒚. It suits her. As she approaches, a slieu of questions come to mind. His lips part, but the answer comes in clones before he can voice them. He wishes he were a poet. Had he invested even a decade in the art of language, he could properly describe his joy. ❫ ↷

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I see, not in a way that matters. ❪ It is because he feels as though he is marring an idol, something pure and holy, that he is so overjoyed. He rends his claws through one, his fangs through another. He finds new ways to take them apart—-quickly, agonizingly slow. Delicate, and brutal. ❫ ↷

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❪ When his ideas begin to thin, only then does he stop to question her. ❫ Too kind... For what reason do you humor me?

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