The House of the Arch

Door doesn't brood, despite the fact that lying on your bed with your chin on your hands staring at nothing might look like brooding. It's a waste of time, doesn't make things better and it certainly doesn't make you feel better when you're unhappy.

But what's been -- aside from a certain best-forgotten adventure in the library -- a ( great week ) fetched up on a sour note last night.

It bothers her, this idea of losing a sense you've had since you were tiny. She can imagine being dead more easily -- too easily -- than she can imagine being ... blinded, like that. Yet she keeps trying to wrap her mind around it, and that bothers her too, but there's got to be a reason for it.

So it's not brooding. It's productive. She just doesn't know what it's producing yet.

[Locked to connernotconnor, lest my brain go splodey. You wouldn't want that all over your friendslist. Icky icky ptang, no.]

There's a journal open on the table next to Door's bed. It would say, if you were peeking at it: ( this. )

But you wouldn't do that.

Door isn't peeking at it either, at the moment. She's hanging her head upside down off the end of her bed and reading her notes on Starling and Dragon, trying to finalize her ideas for the presentation in Miss Poppins' class on Monday. The room-door's open, because she likes hearing people wander past in the hallway, and the occasional snatches of holiday music from someone else's open door.

[OOC: Quite open! *goes back to adding the million tags that happen when you wait three weeks to do a linkdrop*]

...

29 September 2006

( Notes in lieu of an entry: )

[Linkdrop of Doom v. 2.0]