Anonymous asked: The future. Tell me about it.
Hot. Damp. Too long, not long enough. Eyes closed, letting the bustrain move you forward, sun shining in your lap. Waiting. The anticipation winding and coiling in your stomach, rising, sinking and settling again. Someone is going to get hurt. Fear, probably. One bright hot shot of joy, a lightening bolt that reminds you why you’re doing whatever you’re trying to do. Someone is going to fall in the lake. Cold. Colder. Even colder. Everything smells like wet hot pavement. Everything tastes like salt.