There's an amazing junk shop on Hawthorne. Immediately upon entering, you're overcome by the sweet dusty smell of aged, once-loved things. Racks of stiff, outlandish clothes create a crushing maze when you walk through the door, and after you've tried some on and imagined yourself a sultry songstress, a(more) flirty flapper, a honeyed housewife, silvered, spotted mirrors greet you with dazed expressions. Pose in front of them, then pass beyond to shelves of dented banjos, guitars with snapped strings, drums with dirty, translucent skins sagging in the middle. Flip through the bin of slippery records around the corner. A million unknown bands and singers and dreamers. Behind you, a doorway into the room at the very back of this warren of other people's memories beckons you with with a square of dim sunlight, warming undisturbed dust. Go on. Go in.
Clocks. Huge clocks hanging on or propped against the wall, their ticking slow as Ent's speech. Regal grandfather clocks standing at attention with pendulums stilled. Mantle clocks, ticking away in worried voices. Tiny clocks, in clusters on shelves, speaking softly about all the smallest moments of their days. The lines on the face of each one in a different place.
The hands of the clocks move continually, imperceptibly, toward and away from each other. Alone in this whispering room, you are standing on the face of your very own clock, at the center where the hands are forever joined. You are the pin that holds the two realities of your life together - the time before this moment, and the time after this moment. The hands of the clock are roads, the one behind you changing in relation to the direction of the one in front of you. In the center, in you, all things are and always were possible. (less)
Admittedly, he did have some, but still not as many for someone his age. Nasei barely paid them any mind, even when stroking his okami's face. They were only natural, and actually a little befitting of a man with a silvering black mane... his eyes were sharp, but the(more) rest was soft... and he was so warm...
"What are you doing? I'm trying to read." Sato patted the neko-jin's face, tilting his head out of the way some. "Your hair is getting into the tofu, by the way."
"Nhyeghh." Nasei sat back and controlled-flailed, until his hair was back over his shoulder once he sat up, free of soy-goodness. The okami smiled, cat-pawing in invitation.
"What were you up to just now, hmm?" He rested a hand on one of Nasei's legs when the other leaned over and draped his arms around him.
"Keh heh, those non-existent lines~ of aging, yeah~?"
"You must've had a fan club when you were in your 20s."
"Had we met then, would you still like this look?"
"Mmmmmmmmmmmm~ it's a tough call, Sato-sama~" He traced a finger along the okami's neck and jawline. "It's hard to resist such sexy older man appeal."
"Are you one to talk?"
"Seeeeeee~? It all works out anyway."
"I see, I see." Sato shook his head with a chuckle, pushing Nasei's head away again. "I'm trying to read."(less)