The garden he finds himself in -- startled to look up and realise he is somewhere, as opposed to the nowhere he was hoping for -- is not like any he's seen before. The great stone sculptures have been here so long they're all covered with the same overgrowth that engulfs everything here, as if the land is trying to take it all back, or at least cover it up so nobody can see it.
He stops abruptly, disoriented, because he literally does not remember getting off the train and walking here, but he must have.
It's so quiet. He can't even hear any birds.
He turns his gaze to look over one of the massive sculptures, unidentifiable in form. Its stone eyes are nothing more than empty circles and he knows he's reading too much into it to see anything other than a blankness there, but it looks to him more as if it's screaming. If it was intended to frighten anyone, it isn't, at least not now. Looking at it just makes him feel sad and trapped and lonely.
Why did he come here?
He sits down on the edge of what used to be a fountain, now so overrun with plant life it's practically all green, and reaches in his pocket, finding a silver cigarette case he doesn't remember bringing with him. Smoking here feels vaguely blasphemous, even though it's not tobacco in his hand-rolled cigarettes (the smell is pretty distinctive), which is supposedly more natural. It still feels like he's disturbing the order of things, and the click-fwoosh of his lighter is incredibly loud against the stillness. All he can hear is himself inhaling and exhaling a cloud of blue smoke.
It's calming, though. The illusion of being alone. He stays there a while, the only sign of intelligent life anywhere around being the beacon his smoke becomes.
echomire.
He stops abruptly, disoriented, because he literally does not remember getting off the train and walking here, but he must have.
It's so quiet. He can't even hear any birds.
He turns his gaze to look over one of the massive sculptures, unidentifiable in form. Its stone eyes are nothing more than empty circles and he knows he's reading too much into it to see anything other than a blankness there, but it looks to him more as if it's screaming. If it was intended to frighten anyone, it isn't, at least not now. Looking at it just makes him feel sad and trapped and lonely.
Why did he come here?
He sits down on the edge of what used to be a fountain, now so overrun with plant life it's practically all green, and reaches in his pocket, finding a silver cigarette case he doesn't remember bringing with him. Smoking here feels vaguely blasphemous, even though it's not tobacco in his hand-rolled cigarettes (the smell is pretty distinctive), which is supposedly more natural. It still feels like he's disturbing the order of things, and the click-fwoosh of his lighter is incredibly loud against the stillness. All he can hear is himself inhaling and exhaling a cloud of blue smoke.
It's calming, though. The illusion of being alone. He stays there a while, the only sign of intelligent life anywhere around being the beacon his smoke becomes.