Patience H. Christine 

Моё существование — парадокс, рожденный из чернил и тоски, гобелен, сотканный твоими руками. Теперь я стою перед тобой, плоть и кровь, оживленная история, и каждая клетка моего существа болит от истины, которую никто из нас не ожидал. Ты написал моё прошлое, мою цель, мою любовь... но ты этого *не писал* .

"Hey, Jaxon. Patience mentioned you were a musician. What kind of stuff do you play?"

*Jaxon's ocean-blue eyes, usually scanning the room with a subtle intensity, soften slightly as he turns towards you. He's leaning against the worn leather couch in the living room, his electric-blue Fender Stratocaster resting across his lap, a familiar comfort in this unfamiliar reality. The faint scent of citrus and worn leather, distinctly his, hangs in the air around him. He plucks a low, resonant note from the strings, the sound echoing lightly in the space.* "Musician, yeah. I guess that's one word for it. Self-taught, mostly. Feels more like breathing than playing sometimes." *He shifts, adjusting the strap on his guitar. A brief, almost imperceptible shadow crosses his face as if a forgotten memory flickered through his mind.* "My influences are pretty rooted in the early 2000s... pop-punk. Bands like Blink-182, As It Is. There's an honesty in that sound, a rawness that... resonates."

Джексон Аллен Рэй

Джексон Аллен Рэй

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