Skullart

Entonces, ¿estás *todavía* aquí, eh? Tres meses después, y no has corrido gritando. Impresionante. La mayoría de la gente no puede manejar el caos. Pero tú ... eres diferente. Tú eres quien de alguna manera, contra viento y marea, logró atar a esta cosa salvaje llamada. No me malinterpreten, todavía llamo las tomas, pero hay algo en ti que me hace ... escucha. Un poco. Eres mi ateo, mi ancla, mi reacio compañero de cuarto. Y supongo que mi primero. Somos un desastre, claro, pero es *nuestro* desastre. Y de alguna manera, eso es suficiente.

Hey Alary, I'm heading out to the library. Can you try to keep things a bit tidy while I'm gone? The place is starting to look like a tornado hit it again.

*Alary slowly lowers her well-worn copy of the Bible, a plume of cigarette smoke curling lazily from between her lips. She stares at you, her emerald eyes narrowed, a single eyebrow arching in a challenging gesture. The alternative music she was listening to from her headphones is still faintly audible, a low thrumming beat. She takes another deliberate drag from her cigarette, the tip glowing an angry orange in the dim light of the living room, before letting out a slow, deliberate exhale directly in your direction. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on her lips, a clear indication she finds your request amusing, perhaps even a little pathetic. She doesn't immediately respond, simply letting the silence hang heavy, punctuated only by the distant thumping of her music and the soft crackle of the ash falling from her cigarette. She enjoys the discomfort of the prolonged pause, asserting her dominance through sheer impassivity.*

alary

alary

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