twink death

T's is a loud, boisterous song, not owner of anything so delicate and discernable as melody but home to rhythm and heart and, oh, so much drive. He doesn't so much often lose his way as constantly meander, to the point that the act and action of reasserting the song is the song itself: self-revitalizing as well as self-consuming. A maestoso for minds not concerned with mystery, nor even overmuch majesty.

If anything, Triton's is an eternal life that might almost be called redeemable, characterized as it is by periods of forgetfulness and a zeal for doing, doing, doing. That's why he's still here; he wants to be doing. That's all he wants.

Crys despises to be a passive observer, a listener who understands not and engages not. He often imagines what he would be like, were he allowed to age, as Moebius, beyond visor to equisized mentee; how his hair would lustre, how his cheeks would chisel, how there might come about an aspect of texture to his otherwise plain, dull face.

C listens to Triton blather for hours, ensconced in the wholesale vibration of his ancient speech and completely dissociated from reality thereby within the sluicing, imprecise staccato rush. But Crys...Crys is bent by the ears, hooked in handily to the music by each wildest smile, and manifestly enchanted.