Miracleist
Bathing in dream light
"A guy loses his face and goes to buy one but he can’t afford it so he leaves." Expanded.
P.S. Also meant to be an attempt at science fiction writing. Emphasis on 'attempt'
P.P.S. Don't judge me ples
--
Well, there goes his face. Again.
He aspires to make less a habit of this, but his circumstances conspire against him. So it is such that he looks upon an empty visage in the silver pane once more, finding little in the way of remarkable features on the clean, fleshy slate. Pristine and perfect for the making to the neo-archaic beats of the eclectic echobass, pumping its sonorous rhythm into his tiny chamber. And what of the tapestry he seeks now to weave?
Oh the joy! First, the gleaming pair of cyan orbs through which he viewed vibrant shades of grey. Then the sharp, hooked nose through which he whiffed a putrid aroma. Like a conductor, he controls the waxes and wanes of the melody. The cyan turn crimson and the nose flattens. Once he stops over his natural glaze and misshapen beak, but only to scoff. Finally he finishes with his desired, looking not upon the face but the numbers rippling on the metallic surface – too many to count.
So with one final flourish, he looked back upon a man without a face, watching as the musculature creased in an upwards arc. Muffled and from deep within a mouthless countenance came a raspy voice.
“Maybe next time.”
P.S. Also meant to be an attempt at science fiction writing. Emphasis on 'attempt'
P.P.S. Don't judge me ples
--
Well, there goes his face. Again.
He aspires to make less a habit of this, but his circumstances conspire against him. So it is such that he looks upon an empty visage in the silver pane once more, finding little in the way of remarkable features on the clean, fleshy slate. Pristine and perfect for the making to the neo-archaic beats of the eclectic echobass, pumping its sonorous rhythm into his tiny chamber. And what of the tapestry he seeks now to weave?
Oh the joy! First, the gleaming pair of cyan orbs through which he viewed vibrant shades of grey. Then the sharp, hooked nose through which he whiffed a putrid aroma. Like a conductor, he controls the waxes and wanes of the melody. The cyan turn crimson and the nose flattens. Once he stops over his natural glaze and misshapen beak, but only to scoff. Finally he finishes with his desired, looking not upon the face but the numbers rippling on the metallic surface – too many to count.
So with one final flourish, he looked back upon a man without a face, watching as the musculature creased in an upwards arc. Muffled and from deep within a mouthless countenance came a raspy voice.
“Maybe next time.”
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