herr_bookman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
herr_bookman) wrote2013-11-16 09:46 am
herr_bookman) wrote2013-11-16 09:46 am
Entry tags:
OOM: Complete Garbage
[ I think I'm paranoid
And complicated
I think I'm paranoid
Manipulated ]
{ And Rae? Thank you. For your faith in me. For the benefit of the doubt."
"You're... welcome, Autor." }
"Home" is the same as ever. The lectures are the same lectures, Fakir dances the same dances, and Autor's stomach churns.
He doesn't want to think on her. So he breaks down Prinz und Rabe into its base components, immersing himself in Story and the work he's been neglecting. He makes the same quill strokes on the same parchments, blends the same types of ink into the same ratios, and drinks the same teas in the same ceramic cups.
Until one day out of several countless repeated days, he writes, "I foresaw."
[ You can look, but you can’t touch
I don’t think I like you much ]
That's right, he thinks, ink swelling on the page. I foresaw this. I knew he'd send us on this path, and I'm letting it happen.
With a fierce flick of his wrist, Autor opens his journal, watching the pages fall open automatically to an ink-blackened copy of Dr. Lecter's dossier.
He'd have shown it to Rae, but that would just make things worse. Not to mention the matter of Story would bring her pain, and he'd just feed on that, he thinks. And ergo my failure. Again.
[ I fall down just to give you a thrill
Prop me up with another pill
If I should fail, if I should fold
I nailed my faith to the sticking pole ]
I'm so sick of fleeing, he thinks, frowning. But I don't know what else to do.
Second wind spent, the boy deflates. Am... Am I paranoid? he wonders, biting his lip as he trails his fingertips over the page. His gaze falls on his discarded quill, resting on the cover of his life's story, a stylized sketch of crowns and swords and ravens. I've been called crazy before, but I'm...
"He pressed Lohengrin for a reaction. He kissed me," Autor says aloud, to set the words in stone. "And if I'm paranoid, so be it; but I am right, damn it! I am right!"
Autor hurls his journal on the desk and hisses through gritted teeth. "And I refuse to let you control me."
[ Steal me, deal me, anyway you heal me
Maim me, tame me, you can never change me
Love me, like me, come ahead and fight me ]
Which he knows might be exactly what the good doctor wants.
And complicated
I think I'm paranoid
Manipulated ]
{ And Rae? Thank you. For your faith in me. For the benefit of the doubt."
"You're... welcome, Autor." }
"Home" is the same as ever. The lectures are the same lectures, Fakir dances the same dances, and Autor's stomach churns.
He doesn't want to think on her. So he breaks down Prinz und Rabe into its base components, immersing himself in Story and the work he's been neglecting. He makes the same quill strokes on the same parchments, blends the same types of ink into the same ratios, and drinks the same teas in the same ceramic cups.
Until one day out of several countless repeated days, he writes, "I foresaw."
[ You can look, but you can’t touch
I don’t think I like you much ]
That's right, he thinks, ink swelling on the page. I foresaw this. I knew he'd send us on this path, and I'm letting it happen.
With a fierce flick of his wrist, Autor opens his journal, watching the pages fall open automatically to an ink-blackened copy of Dr. Lecter's dossier.
He'd have shown it to Rae, but that would just make things worse. Not to mention the matter of Story would bring her pain, and he'd just feed on that, he thinks. And ergo my failure. Again.
[ I fall down just to give you a thrill
Prop me up with another pill
If I should fail, if I should fold
I nailed my faith to the sticking pole ]
I'm so sick of fleeing, he thinks, frowning. But I don't know what else to do.
Second wind spent, the boy deflates. Am... Am I paranoid? he wonders, biting his lip as he trails his fingertips over the page. His gaze falls on his discarded quill, resting on the cover of his life's story, a stylized sketch of crowns and swords and ravens. I've been called crazy before, but I'm...
"He pressed Lohengrin for a reaction. He kissed me," Autor says aloud, to set the words in stone. "And if I'm paranoid, so be it; but I am right, damn it! I am right!"
Autor hurls his journal on the desk and hisses through gritted teeth. "And I refuse to let you control me."
[ Steal me, deal me, anyway you heal me
Maim me, tame me, you can never change me
Love me, like me, come ahead and fight me ]
Which he knows might be exactly what the good doctor wants.