08-28-2008, 08:35 PM
I thought that that lyric was "drunk with living flame" for the longest time. I like living better, but, eh.
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She had watched the wolves in what she had affectionately dubbed the ‘sick shack’ with a dark expectation that she would one day sink to that level. She was not optimistic enough to believe that something such as her species would protect her totally from the more advanced symptoms — just that it belated them, and shifted them slightly. Nikita had felt herself worsening, though she didn’t know if it was true or simply in her mind. Her mind had been playing several tricks on her lately nowadays; she couldn’t trust it as it was now. She would close her eyes to rest or to sleep, and she would see memories and other occasions playing like movies behind her closed lids. It had become more and more frequent until she had started to have waking dreams — ones that leaked into reality and made the lines between then and now blur crazily.
It was late morning; a particularly vivid dream had woken her earlier, and she had been awake since, though barely. She was mostly alternating between dozing outside her make-shift shelter — that she had not gotten the chance to improve since she had gotten ill — and staring across the lake and the camp of the group of gypsies. No one was around; the foul weather, though rain had not started to fall, seemed to be keeping them at bay. She was mostly happy. The sane side of her said that she was dangerous, that she shouldn’t be out and about. And yet another side saw no reason she shouldn’t.
Now, however, her eyes were open but she was seeing a dream. A memory. The dreary lake and camp turned into a dilapidated city street, overshadowed by clouds and with a faint rain falling. Sounds echoed in her ears, sounding more artificial than real and yet still believable, and, after a few moments, she lost the present. She could almost feel the presence of that nameless city that remained in the corner of her mind, the broken buildings and the echoes of shouts and whispers of words lingering on the wind.
And she could sense Patriot, though she did not see him yet. She knew he would appear sooner or later, though. In her dreams and memories, he was always there. Always. She merely waited.
She had watched the wolves in what she had affectionately dubbed the ‘sick shack’ with a dark expectation that she would one day sink to that level. She was not optimistic enough to believe that something such as her species would protect her totally from the more advanced symptoms — just that it belated them, and shifted them slightly. Nikita had felt herself worsening, though she didn’t know if it was true or simply in her mind. Her mind had been playing several tricks on her lately nowadays; she couldn’t trust it as it was now. She would close her eyes to rest or to sleep, and she would see memories and other occasions playing like movies behind her closed lids. It had become more and more frequent until she had started to have waking dreams — ones that leaked into reality and made the lines between then and now blur crazily.
It was late morning; a particularly vivid dream had woken her earlier, and she had been awake since, though barely. She was mostly alternating between dozing outside her make-shift shelter — that she had not gotten the chance to improve since she had gotten ill — and staring across the lake and the camp of the group of gypsies. No one was around; the foul weather, though rain had not started to fall, seemed to be keeping them at bay. She was mostly happy. The sane side of her said that she was dangerous, that she shouldn’t be out and about. And yet another side saw no reason she shouldn’t.
Now, however, her eyes were open but she was seeing a dream. A memory. The dreary lake and camp turned into a dilapidated city street, overshadowed by clouds and with a faint rain falling. Sounds echoed in her ears, sounding more artificial than real and yet still believable, and, after a few moments, she lost the present. She could almost feel the presence of that nameless city that remained in the corner of her mind, the broken buildings and the echoes of shouts and whispers of words lingering on the wind.
And she could sense Patriot, though she did not see him yet. She knew he would appear sooner or later, though. In her dreams and memories, he was always there. Always. She merely waited.