Post by Frenchie Savage on Oct 11, 2009 11:47:36 GMT
Normally Frenchie was, as a result of his horribly tight schedule, quite diligent about his coursework, getting it out of the way as soon and as quickly as possible, knowing that any window of undedicated time that he had to get things done may well be the only window he had before things ended up being late. But tonight he was even more tired than usual; following the previous weeks’ schedule –rehearsals and performances and regular lessons being so tightly packed together that he had to excuse himself early for one and run like mad across town in order to be late for the next, not for days but for more than a month, now- he was practically in tatters. A man less fit and less disciplined probably would have had a nervous breakdown and a bad cold by now, but Frenchie settled simply for being washed out [his usually ‘golden ivory’ complexion being now much closer to silver, further dulled by the reds in his hair—his already fatigued eyes made to look more tired still by the smudged-brown remnants stage makeup that he had not tried very hard to wash off prior to returning to Somnium] and even more spacey than he usually was.
This could no better have been exemplified than as it presently was by his current position; sprawled across rather than sitting on a window-sill, and on top of his course-work as well, crushing his writing beneath the body, and not noticing that he had done so at all. His attention –if it could be called just that- was fixated wholly on the darkness outside. Frenchie might have seemed fascinated by shadows from a distance but closer observation would have revealed a certain inwardness to his gaze which signified that his thoughts had not a thing to do with what lied beyond the window. At some point, Frenchie turned his empty gaze downwards at the cigarette that he had [forgotten he had] been holding in his hand, a near-excruciatingly unenthusiastic response to the pain involved in having allowed the filter to smoulder beneath his fingers. Absently, he ‘stamped the cigarette out’ against the smeared and crinkled remains of his coursework, but in his distraction, really just ended up setting it down there. He then receded back into his reverie, leaving behind him a still-smoking butt and a series of small, blackened spots on his paper.
Ooc- I had such difficulty with this. Do shout if the things I’ve said don’t make any sense, and I'll correct them.
This could no better have been exemplified than as it presently was by his current position; sprawled across rather than sitting on a window-sill, and on top of his course-work as well, crushing his writing beneath the body, and not noticing that he had done so at all. His attention –if it could be called just that- was fixated wholly on the darkness outside. Frenchie might have seemed fascinated by shadows from a distance but closer observation would have revealed a certain inwardness to his gaze which signified that his thoughts had not a thing to do with what lied beyond the window. At some point, Frenchie turned his empty gaze downwards at the cigarette that he had [forgotten he had] been holding in his hand, a near-excruciatingly unenthusiastic response to the pain involved in having allowed the filter to smoulder beneath his fingers. Absently, he ‘stamped the cigarette out’ against the smeared and crinkled remains of his coursework, but in his distraction, really just ended up setting it down there. He then receded back into his reverie, leaving behind him a still-smoking butt and a series of small, blackened spots on his paper.
Ooc- I had such difficulty with this. Do shout if the things I’ve said don’t make any sense, and I'll correct them.