birds singing in the sycamore tree

[baedalites]

As night falls on Baedal, the city is almost quiet. The streets have a few last minute workers returning home, but by now, most citizens have already gone by the temples and picked up their vurt, ready to lay down and dream.

After placing a not-feather in one's mouth, there's a moment where it fizzes against the tongue before sliding coolly down the back of the throat and pulling the user down into sleep. A series of impressions, more sensation than anything concrete, appears before the user and this is how one chooses which Dreamer to enter.

Comments

[diogenesis]

Mycroft watches Alan recline, blades of grass bending under his weight, sunlight sliding across the fabric of his jacket and the planes of his face. Though the distance between them has barely increased, Mycroft feels the space stretch taught, and the desire to reach across and close the gap pulls at him like gravity.

As one does daily with gravity, he resists it, though it gradually erodes his immaculate posture into something willow-like. With curved neck and shoulders, he eases the pull by centimeters, millimeters, and the scent around them shifts to petrichor.

“In that case,” he says, “tell me why a raven is like a writing desk.”