'...And I'm so good at being bad, of course, the old slogan. It I haven't put that on a t-shirt yet, I'm going to. Actually, I really don't want to write anything that can't be put on a t-shirt. Actually, I'd like to only write on t-shirts. Actually, I'd like to write whole novels on t-shirts...' -Lestat de Lioncourt
I want to write, but can't seem to find the words. Everyone says that I'm upset. Which is a perfectly reasonable explanation. Alas, since when have I been reasonable?
For my trips to the Outside in this next week, I shall adorne my upper arm with a mourning band. Melodramatic, hai? It is, but these characters were people to me. They lived full and wonderous lives. Something few actual living and breathing humans rarely achieve.
The Elders are staring at me as I weep, clutching the bitter article that signified the Death. They don't understand. It was just another waste of a few hundred trees to them. Another thing to declare "ungodly" and dispose of.