pterosaur: (Default)
Hey, knight or knights and your crew, whoever you are?

I have to admit, you've done some mean backjumps. Pretty much everywhere people live, you've bombed; I love the dress-ups on the bridges, and that slam in front of the hall of beginnings? Impressive. I guess your tag's the trollface. If I was you and trying to go all-city, I'd try for more throw-ups and a piece or two, a real burner, but hey, I can't handle the cannons. I'm not a writer anymore. [Except that one time in the theater parking lot. And around her nest.]

But now you're slinging my tag around. You're biting my style. That is not on. There's only one garish time traveling psychic anachronism slumming it here, and she's me. Unless there's another, in which case hey, you're awesome, we should hang out.

[She is using graffiti terminology. ...And not being entirely serious, but she is annoyed about seeing her tag a couple times. 'Time traveling' was underlined after a comment from Key. And then she gets ~flashy~. These five letters practically span from one side of the page to the other.]

pterosaur: (💮To be living with the living?)
[Open to anyone. This is the drowning-dream.]

You’re flying over a dark, heaving sea on long, golden-purple wings.

The sky is gray. You can’t see the sun or any shore, and it’s getting darker, and you’re tiring. There are no thermals here. The air is unnaturally still, no friendly breezes to help you along. You’re beating your wings in a ragged pattern - once, twice, then a few seconds of gliding before you dip too low and flap again.

Cut for length, not rating. )

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pterosaur: (Default)
"Horizon" Janine Farehouse

November 2015

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