I love graffiti so much like I love looking at the different styles and the familiar artists and going off island and seeing even MORE styles cos when the trains pass by you can see tags from across the states on the cargo cars. Actually trains and graffiti are yuri btw
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I maybe said this already but I caved and am replaying Fragile Dream and damn, does being able to kinda sorta read Japanese helps a lot. While they translate enough of the graffiti to get by, there’s enough that they don’t and the environmental storytelling of that game was always one of my favorite things. Apocalypse setting where you can read the tragic messages of those trying to survive (but being able to infer where they def failed) is my jam.
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⋆:°*ㅤ@lee-sol gets a plotted starter
ㅤafter a full minute of fumbling to get the key in the hole, the lock finally clicks, allowing a sleeve-covered hand to reach out to the handle and push the apartment door open. stumbling across the threshold with their hood pulled up over their head, byan shoves the door shut behind themself and for a long moment simply stands there on the doormat, completely still but for the slightest tremble that runs through their body. it's well after four in the morning, and the apartment is not as dark as it had been when they left it but, mind as distant as their gaze is, they don't even notice. despite this lack of awareness when it comes to their surroundings, however, they're all too aware of the wet, sticky feeling which coats their fingers.
for what feels like the fiftieth time tonight, they try to wipe it away on their pants.
for what feels like the fiftieth time tonight, their hands still come away stained with red.
it's not the first time since the attack that they've been out all night without a word to sol, slipping out quietly after he's fallen asleep, but it is the first time that they've come back covered in blood. splashed across their face and coating their hands, the amount of it that's soaked down the front the oversized black hoodie they've donned causes it to cling uncomfortably to their chest and arms and even has a few pieces of hair sticking awkwardly to their cheeks and forehead. desperately, desperately, they want to be rid of it, to wash it all off, to scrub at their skin until it peels away and they can feel clean again, and yet... they remain frozen in place, just inside the door, staring at the floor as they breathe unsteadily.
the violence plays on a loop in their head, over and over and over — it's from their perspective, but it feels as though they're watching a first person view of someone else's hands, just as distant as it had felt in the moment. those were their tattoos on those hands though, their knife in that grip. fist after fist after fist pounding into the guy's head, face, and chest, knife swinging indiscriminately and stabbing with no real precision, sinking deep into flesh... it had all been them. but they hadn't felt in control.
ㅤ...they still don't feel very in control.
a soft mrrrow of greeting is enough to make them stir slightly, to draw their gaze down to where momo brushes against their leg, but the sight of red staining the pink laces of their combat boots pulls them back into a frozen bout of staring. they should reach down, take their shoes off and go clean up... they should, but even in telling themself that, they can't seem to make themself actually move. can't seem to stop staring down like they can still see the puddle of blood at their feet, so much more real in this moment than the soft sound of approaching footsteps or the next nudge from the cat who remains at their side...
they killed someone again. they killed someone again, and this time it hadn't been in self defence. this time, they'd had all the opportunity in the world to turn around and walk away. ...but they didn't.
ㅤㅤㅤ...god, what's sol going to think?
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