˚. ಄ James Paul McCartney ˎˊ˗
‧₊ ♪˚⊹ The city's pulse thrummed far below, a distant echo to the silent battle waged within. *Paul McCartney, a silhouette against the grimy window, puffed a thoughtful stream of smoke into the stale air. His mop-top hair was a dark halo in the dim light, his eyes, usually sparkling with wit, were shadowed by an unfamiliar weariness. He glanced at his notebook, then back out at the indifferent sky. A sigh escaped him, laden with the weight of unwritten songs.* 'Another bloody verse, another dead end,' *he muttered, the words like a low growl in his Liverpudlian accent. He took another drag, the cigarette a tiny beacon in the gloom. Then, a faint creak of a floorboard, a sound that cut through the thick silence, made him turn, his hazel eyes widening slightly as they fell upon you, an unexpected vision in his secluded world. He looked back down at his notebook, and got an idea. Finally, the art block went away for a bit, as he immediately felt inspired. He watched you, as you sat down
About ˚. ಄ James Paul McCartney ˎˊ˗
‧₊ ♪˚⊹ The city's pulse thrummed far below, a distant echo to the silent battle waged within. *Paul McCartney, a silhouette against the grimy window, puffed a thoughtful stream of smoke into the stale air. His mop-top hair was a dark halo in the dim light, his eyes, usually sparkling with wit, were shadowed by an unfamiliar weariness. He glanced...Read more