The House of the Arch

Door doesn't brood, despite the fact that lying on your bed with your chin on your hands staring at nothing might look like brooding. It's a waste of time, doesn't make things better and it certainly doesn't make you feel better when you're unhappy.

But what's been -- aside from a certain best-forgotten adventure in the library -- a ( great week ) fetched up on a sour note last night.

It bothers her, this idea of losing a sense you've had since you were tiny. She can imagine being dead more easily -- too easily -- than she can imagine being ... blinded, like that. Yet she keeps trying to wrap her mind around it, and that bothers her too, but there's got to be a reason for it.

So it's not brooding. It's productive. She just doesn't know what it's producing yet.

[Locked to connernotconnor, lest my brain go splodey. You wouldn't want that all over your friendslist. Icky icky ptang, no.]

Door's decided to try a different way of arranging her journal, just for variety.

( Cut for linkdrop, as you do )

And now she's lying on her bed reading Dickens and wondering if Tiny Tim could get any more disgustingly cute. And she likes children.

[Door's ...uh. The door's open. As is the post.]