Categories > Anime/Manga > Weiss Kreuz > Interesting Enough
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Insanity felt like spiders dancing on nerve endings; painting with their myriad of legs in little trickles of blood. It was reading a book backwards, knowing the ending and trying to sort out the beginning.
There had to be a beginning. A jigsaw puzzle of bad ideas scattered over a faded background of good intention. There was a bemused third person watching a cacophony of teen angst and ego; not quite impartial, but unsure as to how to step in and break it up.
Insanity tasted like a pharmaceutical spill, left sugar thick on the lips and suggested a daunting campaign against tooth enamel. It left the tongue thick and fuzzy, not at all able to shape the appropriate words at the necessary times.
Nursery rhymes came in one ear with a frantic dedication, and drifted out the other helplessly entangled with an almost arcane mix of insults and ribald suggestions.
Insanity felt like tempers left to boil in a particularly vindictive summer sun, over asphalt. It was being bound and mute while snakes slithered up and down phobic skin. It was spite rolled tight and smoked after a good fuck.
Sanity was a hint of designer cologne, the click of new shoes hitting the floor with deadly precision. It was the sharp goad of disdain in pale brown eyes.
Playing in the sandbox had been interesting; tossing handfuls of thoughts about with defiant disregard had contained its own charm. But no one, no one, looked down on him.
"I am Schuldig." Sanity was a voice rough with misuse, heavy with warning.
"Aren't we all?" Sanity was a dry sense of humor, thoughts proceeding along with a precision that would make the most efficient tyrant swoon with envy. Sanity was the name Crawford rolled on his tongue, tested and tasted like wine that was suspected to be cheap, regardless the fascinating packaging.
Schuldig pulled himself together, snatching carelessly wandering bits of personality back with a jongleurs ease. This particular vintage was satisfying enough. Was interesting.
Insanity felt like spiders dancing on nerve endings; painting with their myriad of legs in little trickles of blood. It was reading a book backwards, knowing the ending and trying to sort out the beginning.
There had to be a beginning. A jigsaw puzzle of bad ideas scattered over a faded background of good intention. There was a bemused third person watching a cacophony of teen angst and ego; not quite impartial, but unsure as to how to step in and break it up.
Insanity tasted like a pharmaceutical spill, left sugar thick on the lips and suggested a daunting campaign against tooth enamel. It left the tongue thick and fuzzy, not at all able to shape the appropriate words at the necessary times.
Nursery rhymes came in one ear with a frantic dedication, and drifted out the other helplessly entangled with an almost arcane mix of insults and ribald suggestions.
Insanity felt like tempers left to boil in a particularly vindictive summer sun, over asphalt. It was being bound and mute while snakes slithered up and down phobic skin. It was spite rolled tight and smoked after a good fuck.
Sanity was a hint of designer cologne, the click of new shoes hitting the floor with deadly precision. It was the sharp goad of disdain in pale brown eyes.
Playing in the sandbox had been interesting; tossing handfuls of thoughts about with defiant disregard had contained its own charm. But no one, no one, looked down on him.
"I am Schuldig." Sanity was a voice rough with misuse, heavy with warning.
"Aren't we all?" Sanity was a dry sense of humor, thoughts proceeding along with a precision that would make the most efficient tyrant swoon with envy. Sanity was the name Crawford rolled on his tongue, tested and tasted like wine that was suspected to be cheap, regardless the fascinating packaging.
Schuldig pulled himself together, snatching carelessly wandering bits of personality back with a jongleurs ease. This particular vintage was satisfying enough. Was interesting.
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