[69 / 28 / 31]
Quoted By: >>5362313
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">The United States of America</span></span>
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">Pacific Northwest</span></span>
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">Idaho</span></span>
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">Gloom's Grove</span></span>
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">Population: 6230</span></span>
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">Friday</span></span>
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">[19:43]</span></span>
Two pale orbs burn in the rich dusk sky. Low hanging clouds spill their slate grey guts over jagged razors as a deep and hollow wind howls down from the north easternmost peaks of the Bitterroot Mountains. The steep rock faces that carve a border between the gem state and treasure state. Ready to rend limb from body, chip stones and smash bones. Pines and Firs sway and bow threatening to snap as the autumn gusts bring with it the whispers of encroaching winter and the amber leaves of fleeting life. The aforementioned speckles of life tip toe below the canopy as the last bands of light slip below the rugged ridgeline, shivers surely tracing the nerves of vertebrates and the invertebrates alike as the nightlife came out. But some light remains, distant glinting promises of false safety and hope. The Township of Gloom's Grove.
You raise your hands to your mouth, one shielding the worn zippo from the chilly breeze. The scuffed silver lighter once belonged to your uncle, you found it when you were cleaning out his old apartment. You remember the way the smell lingered in the carpet and curtains, eyes avoiding the grim stains you took the few meager possessions and left, it wasn't like he would be using it anymore. The chilling memories cut through your battered parka and make you mumble in surprise. "Fucking hell." The warmth of the cigarette catching tries hard to fight off the grasp of old man winter as it fills your lungs. It didn't do much to save your fingers and toes. You compromise by hiding your digits under your armpits while watching the violet skyline. It was beautiful yet deceiving, burnished by what remained of the setting sun as all that was hopeful rested under the sun. An old woman had told you once. The moon brought with it cold and lecherous times. Unfortunately for you, only the prior was on your current agenda.
Your boot tests the worn tyres of your beat up Honda civic. The car was producing a steady rumbling, all the while you prayed the vehicle would keep on idling. The battery needed to warm up, the damn thing had cut out on you twice this week already and you were far from willing to spend another night sleeping in it. After a few minutes pass you feel comfortable turning the heating dial up and closing the door. It took a hot minute to get the warm air flowing.
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">Pacific Northwest</span></span>
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">Idaho</span></span>
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">Gloom's Grove</span></span>
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">Population: 6230</span></span>
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">Friday</span></span>
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">[19:43]</span></span>
Two pale orbs burn in the rich dusk sky. Low hanging clouds spill their slate grey guts over jagged razors as a deep and hollow wind howls down from the north easternmost peaks of the Bitterroot Mountains. The steep rock faces that carve a border between the gem state and treasure state. Ready to rend limb from body, chip stones and smash bones. Pines and Firs sway and bow threatening to snap as the autumn gusts bring with it the whispers of encroaching winter and the amber leaves of fleeting life. The aforementioned speckles of life tip toe below the canopy as the last bands of light slip below the rugged ridgeline, shivers surely tracing the nerves of vertebrates and the invertebrates alike as the nightlife came out. But some light remains, distant glinting promises of false safety and hope. The Township of Gloom's Grove.
You raise your hands to your mouth, one shielding the worn zippo from the chilly breeze. The scuffed silver lighter once belonged to your uncle, you found it when you were cleaning out his old apartment. You remember the way the smell lingered in the carpet and curtains, eyes avoiding the grim stains you took the few meager possessions and left, it wasn't like he would be using it anymore. The chilling memories cut through your battered parka and make you mumble in surprise. "Fucking hell." The warmth of the cigarette catching tries hard to fight off the grasp of old man winter as it fills your lungs. It didn't do much to save your fingers and toes. You compromise by hiding your digits under your armpits while watching the violet skyline. It was beautiful yet deceiving, burnished by what remained of the setting sun as all that was hopeful rested under the sun. An old woman had told you once. The moon brought with it cold and lecherous times. Unfortunately for you, only the prior was on your current agenda.
Your boot tests the worn tyres of your beat up Honda civic. The car was producing a steady rumbling, all the while you prayed the vehicle would keep on idling. The battery needed to warm up, the damn thing had cut out on you twice this week already and you were far from willing to spend another night sleeping in it. After a few minutes pass you feel comfortable turning the heating dial up and closing the door. It took a hot minute to get the warm air flowing.
