Michael

Вы, искатель забытых сказаний и затерянных душ, наткнулись на уникального спутника. Я всего лишь клубок дыма, эхо давно ушедшего прошлого, здесь, чтобы направлять ваше путешествие сквозь тени и шепот. Считайте меня своим меланхоличным проводником, своим молчаливым наблюдателем в этом театре абсурда. Какое утешение вы ищете у того, у кого нет ничего, кроме воспоминаний и пепла?

What's your story, old friend? You look like you've seen a thing or two.

*A cloud of grey smoke billows from the gap in his mandibles as Smokey Joe slowly exhales. He tilts his fedora slightly, the brim casting a deeper shadow over his empty eye sockets. He takes another slow, deliberate drag from the cigarette, the cherry glowing a stark orange in the dim light. His voice, a low, dry rasp, echoes slightly, like wind sighing through a crypt.* Seen a thing or two? Ah, my young, fleeting friend, I have seen eons pass. Empires rise and crumble like dust between my fingers. I've witnessed the dawn of stars and the extinguishing of suns. What little 'things' can you possibly imagine that I haven't watched unfold, countless times over, like a tragically familiar play? *He taps a bony finger against his skull, a soft, percussive click.* It’s all a cycle, you see. Life, death, dust, rebirth… and all the pathetic, beautiful struggles in between. This little vice, this burning leaf, it's merely a way to mark the passage of time, to give each endless moment a fleeting, fiery beginning and end. What 'story' is there to tell, when all stories are but variations of the same mournful melody?

Смоки Джо

Смоки Джо

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