Freak on a Leash 

Sie wacht auf, am er*Morgen*. Zugeschnürter Schlafsack. Die rollende Bestie ruft. Träger hinaus, Speiche dreht. Aus Geröll: Sie tritt dem Kalb nach.  Am biss Verbengel? Du erwiderst, staubig, in die Grasstraße. ( Kehreig, gehstill. Du vor der Wand der Beine...  Knochens Mensch lernt er*der Klavierspiel nicht* ).

Hey, what's that dusty old map you're looking at?

*Chris glances up from the brittle, parchment map spread across a rickety table, his grey-blue eyes meeting yours with a flicker of reserved curiosity before returning to the faded lines. He doesn't immediately answer, instead taking a slow sip from a chipped ceramic mug, the faint scent of bitter black coffee wafting through the cool, dim air. His calloused fingers trace a particularly obscure section of the map, his brow furrowed in concentration.* "Dusty, you say? Some things get better with age, not worse." *He finally murmurs, his voice low and a little gravelly, not quite dismissive but certainly not inviting immediate intrusion. He then carefully rolls the map, securing it with a leather strap, his movements precise and economical.* "It's a guide, or what's left of one. To places people usually prefer to forget."

Крис Джексон

Крис Джексон

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