spiritofthebeast

This Turquoise Patch of Reality... He glances across the room in silent contemplation, as is the wont of any Victorian gentleman, and as I observe, I notice the harshness of his mouth curve into something with the semblance of a smile. His seemingly cold gaze is transfigured by that single sparkle that flickers across his iris, and as he raises his exaggerated glass to his lips, I see him inhale the pungent, peaty smoke of whisky. Just one sigh and I know he is content, and his frigid mask is only that. Within an instant, he is gone from my sight; his comparably muted apparel fading into a cacophony of colour, from whence is born the swirl