[There's still beauty here, crackling and electric in its transience, the last gasps of something fading from glory under clutter and lack of care. The place is like a gallery of lives lived: every scratch, every discarded trinket - Prior's fingertips skirt splinters in the doorway as he walks through it, as though he's tracing the outline of whoever passed this way before and was too rough with it. There is a lot that feels scratched and jagged-edged here, but not everything.]
This music...
[He looks like he might have been separated from a tour party, following the sound and letting it draw him in. The shift from wherever he was (a bed, but this isn't dreaming, he knows that state too well) to wherever he is doesn't seem to have come with a jolt.
And across the room, three figures, none of them unfamiliar. Two of them with a youth and beauty vital enough to clash sharply with their surrounding - the other growing almost to resemble it, somehow. Prior's expression's an odd mix of warmth and sorrow.]
no subject
This music...
[He looks like he might have been separated from a tour party, following the sound and letting it draw him in. The shift from wherever he was (a bed, but this isn't dreaming, he knows that state too well) to wherever he is doesn't seem to have come with a jolt.
And across the room, three figures, none of them unfamiliar. Two of them with a youth and beauty vital enough to clash sharply with their surrounding - the other growing almost to resemble it, somehow. Prior's expression's an odd mix of warmth and sorrow.]
Oh, I think I've been here before.