[Yes, he thinks so. He thinks that his immortality has been nothing more than a drain, a burden, a suffocating thing -- stretching his humanity throughout the years so that it barely exists any more. That he cares for little, that the only thing that allows to live within him is either boredom, or apathy, or cruelty, or sorrow, is the consequence of it. Festering from the inside out, driving a hole in what still exists of his soul.
The eagerness he sees in her expression, he cannot ever hope to relate to. It's oddly fascinating, though easily dismissed with a singular question.]
How long have you "lived", then?
[Because, no, her explanation tells him very little. Other than the fact that she is a possibility, which implies something almost intangible, and yet here she stood quite solid before him.]
no subject
The eagerness he sees in her expression, he cannot ever hope to relate to. It's oddly fascinating, though easily dismissed with a singular question.]
How long have you "lived", then?
[Because, no, her explanation tells him very little. Other than the fact that she is a possibility, which implies something almost intangible, and yet here she stood quite solid before him.]