Done, they suppose. Ripping through the world is something of a distant memory, almost, or something so close to it, the ache so dulled away and eroded into nothing that it might as well not exist at all. If it's strange, it doesn't seem that way. Mostly it doesn't feel like much of anything.
They pick up the ukulele they remember learning to play. They put it down again.
They wander around the hallways without direction, without purpose.
They pull out paper and crayons and color looping pictures of golden flowers.
They break a corner off a bar of chocolate and try tasting it, simply to see what it's like. It doesn't taste like anything. They leave it on the kitchen table.
For the most part, Frisk is listless. There's no real meaning to any one thing they settle upon. There's simply things that occupy their time and things that don't; things that are marginally less faded and colorless that are therefore slightly more meaningful compared to the things that are cast in strokes of gray or sepia. Occasionally something stirs in their chest, like the ghost of a strong opinion they once held, but they lack the will to chase after it, and sooner or later it fades.
FRISK + YOU; POST-EXTRACTION; EVERYWHERE; reaching out to embrace whatever may come
Done, they suppose. Ripping through the world is something of a distant memory, almost, or something so close to it, the ache so dulled away and eroded into nothing that it might as well not exist at all. If it's strange, it doesn't seem that way. Mostly it doesn't feel like much of anything.
They pick up the ukulele they remember learning to play. They put it down again.
They wander around the hallways without direction, without purpose.
They pull out paper and crayons and color looping pictures of golden flowers.
They break a corner off a bar of chocolate and try tasting it, simply to see what it's like. It doesn't taste like anything. They leave it on the kitchen table.
For the most part, Frisk is listless. There's no real meaning to any one thing they settle upon. There's simply things that occupy their time and things that don't; things that are marginally less faded and colorless that are therefore slightly more meaningful compared to the things that are cast in strokes of gray or sepia. Occasionally something stirs in their chest, like the ghost of a strong opinion they once held, but they lack the will to chase after it, and sooner or later it fades.
Everything fades.]