#Fighting Elegy

[byneddiedingo]

Hideki Takahashi and Junko Asana in Fighting Elegy (Seijun Suzuki, 1966) Cast: Hideki Takahashi, Junko Asana, Yusuke Kawazu, Mitsuo Kataoka, Isao Tamagawa, Keisuke Noro, Hiroshi Midorigawa, Seijiro Onda, Chikaku Miyagi. Screenplay: Kaneto Shindo, based on a novel by Takashi Suzuki. Cinematography: Kenji Hagiwara. Production design: Takeo Kimura. Film editing: Mutsuo Tanji, Music: Naozumi Yamamoto. Seijun Suzuki's Fighting Elegy is a coming-of-age story, ostensibly about a hormone-crazed teenager (Hideki Takahashi) who tries to sublimate his lust for the pretty Michiko (Junko Asana) and to expiate his Catholic guilt for that lust by joining one of the warring gangs in his town. But what's really coming of age, as we find out at the film's end, is the militaristic imperialism of prewar Japan. So much of the film depends on Suzuki's mastery of tone as he shifts from the mostly comic story of young Kiroku's plight to the wholly tragic outcome. Kiroku becomes increasingly adept as a fighter, and his rebellious antics at school are not punished so much as increasingly tolerated -- even his father refuses to punish him, taking a boys-will-be-boys attitude. When he's forced to go live with his uncle and transfer to another school, he only gets more bellicose, but although the school has a motto that stresses the necessity of "seemly" behavior, at the end of his stay there the principal is so impressed by Kiroku's fighting skills that he removes his coat and challenges Kiroku to a duel. The scene ends with the two squaring off, suggesting that part of the reason for the military's takeover lies in the older Japanese generation's admiration for the violence of the young. The film ends with Michiko going into a convent, but not before she is forced off of the path she is traveling by a troop of jogging soldiers and her crucifix is trodden into the snow, and with Kiroku on the train to Tokyo, where he plans to join the fight for control of the government. It's not clear from the film which side Kiroku will fight on this time, although the novel on which it's based has him joining the army and dying in China. Suzuki scripted this part of the novel and planned to film it as a sequel before he was forced out of his job at the Nikkatsu studios. Fighting Elegy is an exhibition of Suzuki's original and innovative technique, which audiences loved but studio management thought was out of control.

[randomrichards]

FIGHTING ELEGY:

A hotheaded teen

Joins militaristic gang

So he can lash out

[dangoulains-devotion]

[bisexualfbiagents]

You can believe what you want to believe, Scully, but you can’t hide the truth from me. Because if you do then you’re working against me. And yourself.

THE X FILES | Elegy (4.22)

[evilhorse]

This fight, he can win. He is the Batman, after all.

(Detective Comics #1081)

[hammerhead-jpg]

The more I learn about Vega the more Gavin winning their fight seems ridiculous

[applepath]

I think these guys would be friends. they even have matching names

@jambiird

[hollow-knight-fights]

Hollow Knight Charm Fight: Round 1

[randomfoggytiger]

Scully referenced her own experience in Elegy during her guessing game with Mulder in Fight Club, didn't she?

(For reference, the mention is at 52 sec in this vid.)

[curryshesus]

jeon jungkook fics that own my mind, body, heart, and soul

in other words, this is a collection of my favorite jk fics on tumblr! if you enjoyed any of these fics as much as i did, pls remember to support the authors by interacting with their post. part 2 | other bts members

➺ bitchin - by @kinktae

summary: the 80s were a time of choices. which perm was right for you? what color neon would you wear next? none of these choices, however, were more questionable than a certain deal you made with jeon jungkook.

➺ idealizations concerning real life relations - by @venusiangguk

summary: jungkook loves to be loved, but he doesn’t love in return.

➺ hotter than hell - by @chateautae

summary: jungkook, lucifer and king of hell, has been cast out of the crimson underworld for a reason he’s unsure of. embarking on his journey for the answer should’ve been easy, if it weren’t for you, the human that nurses his wounded body in her home, and accidentally witnesses the truth of his identity. kickstarting a hellish adventure with the devil himself, you discover lucifer is the most infuriating company ever; and jungkook finds out that maybe his answer to returning home lies within his annoying human confidant.

➺ jump then fall (into you) - by @writtenwhalien

summary: bringing Jungkook along as your date to your ex’s lavish cruise wedding seemed like a perfect idea at first — all of your family and close friends together, nothing can go wrong… then Jungkook’s ex shows up and all of a sudden you’re in a years long relationship with him. You don’t mind though, really, how hard can sharing a cabin and pretending to be deeply in love with your best friend really be?

➺ too late to dream - by @kookslastbutton

summary: You did it. You married your college professor. You even bought a house together. Against all odds, everything had fallen into place. But after two years of marriage, you begin feeling something was missing. You want a baby but your husband can’t say the same.

➺ the forgotten spaces- by @oddinary4bts

summary: you've been dancing on the same dance crew since your teenage years, and you finally have an important role in it. It feels like life is taunting you when your rival comes back after disappearing for a year, ready to tease you every chance he gets. Will the teasing turn into more, or are you going to take him down with you?

➺ when the end comes - by @oddinary4bts

summary: Seven years after you've started dating Jungkook, long distance creates a wedge in your relationship. When the only solution seems to be breaking up, you go your separate ways even though love still lives in the two of you. Will you find a way back together, or has the end come for you and Jeon Jungkook? **sequel to the forgotten spaces

➺ falling - by @starshapedkookie

summary: soulmate (noun): a person who is bound to another through the strongest level of emotional and physical connection. one is given a name on the body upon 18 years of age and any transgressions against the laws of soul-bonding will not occur without harm.

➺ love alive - by @jamaisjoons

summary: a year after you and jungkook break up, the two of you meet at your brother’s party.

➺ changes in between - by @taegularities

summary: Becoming the roommate of Jeon Jungkook is the biggest change you’ve ever gotten thrown into - but little do you know that the addition of another man will bring even further turbulence into your (love) life.

➺ falling skies - by @fortunexkookie

summary: Jeon Jiyeon was your childhood best friend; her brother, Jungkook, was something else entirely. You used to be friends, but then he had gone from endearingly frustrating dumb boy to card-carrying fuckboy so fast it had given you whiplash.

Despite the teasing and fighting, Jiyeon realized how Jungkook felt about you long before he did - it was a twin thing - and if you were her sun, and he was her moon, then she just wished she could show you how he reflected your light.

➺ sugarplum elegy - by @bymoonchild

summary: You know no bounds nor depth with Jungkook. While your fuck buddy loves sleeping in your bed and doing laundry for you with his favourite fabric softener, you are in love with a mysterious honeyed, velvety voice on Soundcloud. All’s fine, until you find out that the voice that metaphors your heart to a sweet sugarplum melody actually belongs to the boy who has been taking up a special spot in your bed and in your heart, strumming at your heartstrings all this while. Or, Jungkook has one braincell, but it’s heart-shaped.

➺ an abundance of mondays - by @diortae

summary: "why the fuck would it be easy? you’re disgustingly in love with your best friend. of course it’s complicated.” he pauses to roll his eyes, as if he hasn’t just laid out the most secret parts of you here in the middle of the campus dining hall.

➺ five dates - by @kpopfanfictrash

summary: “Ten dates,” he nods, smile tugging at his lips. “Ten dates, to decide if you want this – want me – or want me to go. Ten dates to get to know me. Ten dates,” he says, oddly soft, “to fall in love with me.” Which then becomes five.

➺ here comes the bride, all dressed in pride - by @hansolmates

summary: You and your cousin Doyeon have had beef with each other since the sandbox. When she plucks the last straw, you decide to end your long-simmering fight by claiming that you and her ex—Jeon Jungkook, are now boyfriend and girlfriend

➺ if i told you - by @gukyi

summary: in order to pay for university, jeon jungkook decides to market his most valuable asset to the wealthy socialites of campus: himself. donning a suit and tie, tousled hair, and glasses (to look smarter), he becomes every rich daughter’s dream: the perfect boyfriend to bring to balls, dinners, and business gatherings. all while you watch from the sidelines, only able to dream of having that much money to buy yourself what you really want: him.

[foxstens]

actually i take that back. my issue was just that i wasnt using soul eater

[tojisun]

just a short spitballing here but—

The gods were slaughtered, and all that remains are remnants of ruined cities, scavenged from the yawning of the earth. Their songs and ways of worship had long since been erased from history—it is not a surprise, not when it were the young cults which blossomed into the religions of today.

Still, they do not hunger, not when they hear hymns and still find a sliver of their reflection within the songs; no human remembers but they know—they have long memorized the elegies made in their names, after all. Such poetries were sung from the base of their worshippers’ throats, spilling into the air for it to be passed on to their gods. The people believed so fiercely that their gods were always close. That they were all-seeing. All-loving.

And perhaps they are.

Perhaps they spoiled their little mortals too much—accepting their offerings with such enthusiasm, before repaying them for their tribute—but look where that got them. They are trapped in time, with dwindling existence. They loved and they protected, and yet their temples were razed and their cities were burned, and their followers turned. They were abandoned by the people, until not even their names were remembered.

The reverence was important, but more so was the remembrance for it always acted as a spark, never to be snuffed out even during times of turmoil. But the years crawled by and even the flickering embers were killed, and now they are left to live like dogs, fighting each other for scraps of mortal affection. Of the wonder within humans that sometimes was turned towards them as their long histories are turned into mere fables and songs.

Then, a shift envelopes the limbo, and lapping waters filter in—the banished gods saw the budding passage and flocked towards it.

The humans called it a miracle; they know it is anything but.

The new gods are tired, that is the reality, and they are hungry for a battle. For a war. And that is how he is pulled in and spat out into existence.

The new gods call him Simon instead of Tyr—he knows it is meant to be a shackle; gods are not allowed their true names, after all, lest one makes the mistake of bestowing them the breath of life. And, for the price of a cult, with its worshippers and its temples, he is made to battle a god they endearingly call Johnny.

Amidst cheers, Tyr meets the familiar eyes of Neit.

Seeing him as he once was makes Tyr aches, fists tightening around his sword because if Neit is here then Woden and Yngvi surely are too.

And perhaps, if they are all here, then maybe, just maybe, Erce is alive too.

It is such a foreign feeling—for a god to pray—but Tyr does, letting his words fall like wisps, like quiet embers, hoping it would reach her.

i had a vision then it segued into this other thing 😭

tyr (simon), neit (johnny), woden (john), yngvi (kyle), erce (f!reader)

[asterdisaster06]

Rottweiler

Summary > the aftermath of the previous mission rottweiler went on

Word count > 1.9k

a/n > i’m back with some more inspiration and maybe a more reliable posting schedule. this time, rottweiler is fighting themselves rather than a faceless enemy

“Are you sure you’re okay to spar?”

“Yes, now will you shut up?” You snarled out to the man in front of you.

“For the record, the doctor recommended you to rest a few more days. Refrain from tearing any stitching out,” Ghost stated, staring deep into your soul - or what was left of it.

You match his gaze, hardened to far worse than the disappointed deadpan he was giving you just now. You knew he was right to some extent. The medical staff did give you a major side eye as they saw you leaving, but they let you check yourself out. It’s unlikely you would have taken no for an answer, following in the footsteps of your fellow teammates. They can’t particularly say shit to you after what they’ve pulled in the past and they know it

Soap, who’s had an entire rusted pole sticking out of him, more shrapnel coating his frame than you thought the human body could ever escape from alive. Blood coagulating on the dusty sand below him, a sick abstract art. An elegy to his role as a demolitions expert - the very thing that might have killed him. Except it didn’t.

He took a fist to the reaper and threw him the middle finger for good measure.

Simon, God, Simon. There was barely anything that boy hadn’t been through. His past was a humourless tale crafted by something far beyond anything comprehensible. There isn’t even a specific instance to describe as death was determined to make his body match his name. A symbol of death, remnanted - left to wander. A sick dance, each touch driving a wedge further and further between Simon and the world of the living. It should have left him wounded, but it only made him a good soldier.

He spat in the face of God and refused an apology from the devil. She shed tears for him, and he turned them to vapour with the heat of his fury.

Gaz, a walking liability to himself - though unintentional. He’s like a ragdoll at the whims of whatever life throws at him. Or, more accurately, where life throws him. It’s a miracle he’s existed this long without a permanent injury given what he’s experiences almost daily. From the small, tripping over himself or running into tables, to the big, falling out of helicopters or over the railings of bridges.

He was made to die, but all he had to say to that was ‘but I’m here to stay.’ He insists, it seems, on living.

Price, he’s experienced a lot. Life hasn’t treated him well, not that it treated any of the other’s with soft hands, but especially him. He’s seen enough to be scarred for ten lifetimes over. The choices he’s had to make might weigh heavier on his heart than the scars littering his body. If Simon is a walking ghost, Price is a shambling corpse.

His life is brimming with sorrow, and it appears as if he has killed his own guardian angel to survive as ours. An ode to those he loves.

“Hesitating like that can cost you your life, y’know,” Simon grumbles, bringing you back to the present.

“So I’ve been told,” You spit, a phantom taste of blood following it.

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

He takes calculated steps, circling you like a dog. The dust beneath your feet shifts - seeming to breathe alongside you. You’re stiff, more so than you would’ve liked to be in these sorts of scenarios; it doesn’t stop you though. Bloodshot eyes stare back at you and you aren’t sure if it’s Simon’s or a reflection of your own. A pause. A moment taken out of respect - a silence. An opening.

You jump.

You claw.

You grasp.

A pitiful attempt against someone you couldn’t even beat on your best day, not in a way that mattered. Given a weapon, and an element of surprise, you might have had a chance. Hand-to-hand combat paired with a lack of fluid movement renders you careless and therefore battered into defeat. Simon is like a bear, or a ram, maybe a mountain lion. These are the thoughts that fully occupy you for the moment you’re rushed to your back, thrown to the ground with as much care as he could manage.

“I told you, you aren’t ready.”

“I never was, Simon,” You huff out, ragged breaths choked by the dirt flying in the air.

“You hesitate,” He points out. “You didn’t used to.”

“I didn’t,” You insist. A lie, and you know it.

“Doesn’t matter, you won’t be getting back on the field for another month regardless. Not my decision so save your yapping,” He lets the knee off your chest and offers a hand. You don’t take it.

“There’s nothing interesting for another month, I’ll live,” You shake off his attempt to rattle you.

“Don’t be so sure,” Simon says, bringing down his neck gaiter. You can’t help but stare at the scar across his lip.

“Looking good LT,” Soap’s voice carries across the field.

“I know the last mission diminished my looks, but am I really that bad?” You deadpan.

“Of course not, Rottie. Do I not tell you enough how stunning you are?” Soap adjusts the fabric around your neck, a touch far more gentle than you deserve.

A wry smile creeps across your face. Your boys always let you know how appreciated you are, both for your abilities and appearance. They’re like your little cheer squad sometimes. Gaz and Soap are more vocal about it, but small touches and comments from Price and Ghost always cause a ripple of butterflies in your stomach.

You roll your eyes and reply, “Far too much, Johnny.” You didn’t mean it.

“Get used to it,” He says, giving you a little mock salute.

It brings your attention to the bandage still on his hand, freshly changed. It reminds you that yours likely need to be cleaned and switched at this point, but you feel undeserving of that kindness. A deep sense of guilt washes over you.

“Don’t sweat it, Bonnie.” He always knows what you’re thinking, a skill you wish would’ve lost its accuracy long ago.

“I need a walk,” You sigh, finishing it off with: “Alone.”

Your feet carry you away, far from the discomfort that was growing inside of your chest. An overwhelming, overachiever, though, you weren’t sure whether you were talking about yourself or the resentment felt towards your mangled body and mind. The memories linger beyond the physical flesh wounds, and somehow hurt more. They sink their teeth into your mangy fur, sticking like fleas to a street mongrel. Your thoughts scrape down your flank. Piercing to the bone; brittle and sad excuses of the framework that is your cage.

You weren’t sure how you felt, but you knew it wasn’t a good feeling. It settled underneath your skin like a parasite. It laid on top of it like a tick. You were terrified. That’s what it was. It was familiar, like your mirror years ago. A sick reflection of an even sicker dog. Self pity wells up like tears, pooling like blood, streaming like sweat. You tread further and further, each footfall sounding like bullets to you. Maybe you’re just stressed.

A whole entire month. It gnaws at you, that information. It shouldn’t, but it does. You know your team better than anyone; they’re reliable, resilient, and know how to function without you. They did it long before, and can continue to do so long after. You would be lying if you said that it didn’t hurt. If it didn’t sting like nettle brushing against your fur. It is unlikely that any extreme mission would be put forth while a team member was out of commission, but you never know with the higher ups. It pains you, an ache blooms across your body at the thought of missing out on the danger. Flowering into a debilitating burn inside of you. Afflicting your mind, thoughts run wild with what ifs.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be up and walking, soldier.”

You had walked yourself right into the lion’s den.

“Price,” You greet, nervousness bubbling up in your throat.

“Rottie.”

“They didn’t stop me,” You say as an excuse.

“Unless they wanted to tranquillise you, I don’t think they could,” Price rolls his eyes.

“They’re free to try,” You quip, shrugging.

“That’s the point, nobody wants to.”

“I’m here, I can walk, I’m not tearing any stitches out, I can shower on my own. What else do you want?” You glare half-heartedly at the rugged man in front of you.

“I want you on bed rest and away from any missions, soldier,” Price says, a forlorn tone almost coating his words like honey. It almost makes you want to roll over and submit, licking the taste from his hands. Key word, almost. Your pride won’t allow you to.

“Like hell that’s happening. I really can’t be arsed to follow any of what I just heard,” You snap. You were cold, tired, and going stir crazy. This wasn’t what you needed-

“This is exactly what you need. A step away from this life. Away from us,” Price says, paralysing you. He isn’t wrong, but he isn’t right either.

“Where do you want me to go?” You ask, slipping into the professional nature. Like a hunting dog sent on a mission, following the scent of those above and below itself.

“No, that’s not what I meant. Don’t do that. Don’t treat it like just another mission from your past life,” Price’s tone hardens alongside his face - all traces of softness gone to someone who hasn’t known him. Not like you have. You know it’s like correcting a dog; you still love them, but they need guidance sometimes. You fight against it.

“Where, Price, where?” You ask again.

“Laswell suggested spending some time in the states. Away from all of this. Someplace you’ll be. . . content.” His hollow words echo the word “safe” as if you actively seek trouble these days. Actively sniff out traps yet always seem to get your paw clamped in the snares meant for rabbits.

“Fine,” You say, about to turn on your heel and leave.

“Hound,” Price starts, using your official callsign. “Don’t take this the wrong way, don’t distance yourself again. You’ve worked hard to get here and have earned a safe place-”

“Except for when I actually need it,” You let slip out.

“It isn’t safe here.”

“It’s a hell of a lot safer than where I was before, don’t you think?” You snarl, teeth bared and lips pulled back. Rabid, foaming at the mouth, not a house pet anymore.

“We aren’t kicking you out.” Price says this, but you can’t help but doubt it.

“Okay.”

“I mean it, we aren’t.”

“Okay.”

You find yourself staring at the scars Price lets fly free in the old tee he decided to don today. You helped pick it out. Tearing your eyes away from his chest, you can’t find yourself to meet his gaze, opting instead to stare at the paraphernalia around his office. You linger on the photos of your team a little too long. Logically you know he’s right, this is a temporary precaution. If only it didn’t feel like the quarantine before they lop your head off to test for rabies.

“I’m going to go now,” You speak, knowing it’s not what Price was waiting for you to say.

“Okay,” He responds, his turn now for the small talk.

Turning on your feet, you prepare yourself for the god awful goodbyes that will inevitably have to occur and the temporary gift of life being bestowed upon you. If only it felt that way. If only you could view it as that. If only it didn’t have to happen. If only.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Kimberley Richards at HuffPost:

Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz (D) recently slammed Sen. JD Vance (R-Ohio), Donald Trump’s vice presidential pick, over his views on rural America. During an appearance on a Tuesday segment of MSNBC’s “Morning Joe,” the governor criticized Vance for the way he characterized “small-town America” in his 2016 bestselling memoir, “Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis.”

“People like JD Vance know nothing about small-town America,” said Walz, who was raised in rural Nebraska. “My town had 400 people in it, 24 kids in my graduating class — 12 were cousins.” “And he gets it all wrong,” he continued. “It’s not about hate, it’s not about collapsing in. The golden rule there is mind your own damn business.” Walz then said that the Republican Party has “destroyed rural America” through their policies. “They’ve divided us. They’re in our exam rooms, they’re telling us what books to read,” he said. “And I think what Kamala Harris knows is, bringing people together around the shared values — strong public schools, strong labor unions that create the middle class, health care that’s affordable and accessible — those are the things.” The Minnesota governor later emphasized his point that Republicans have created division, saying, “We can’t even go to Thanksgiving dinner with our uncle, because you end up in some weird fight that is unnecessary.”

Appearing on MSNBC’s Morning Joe Tuesday, Minnesota Governor and potential Harris VP pick Tim Walz (D) scored Trump VP pick and Ohio Senator J.D. Vance (R) good by saying that Vance “know[s] nothing about small-town America.

Walz deserves to be Harris’s VP choice.

From the 07.23.2024 edition of MSNBC's Morning Joe:

[thy-valhallen]

Batfam Voices as Instruments

Batfam voices as instruments bc i think of things very musically and it struck me others don't

Bruce: bass guitar. he's low and deep and when he speaks, you feel it in your eardrums, straight into your jaw. his words are like injections into your skull, feel intense and impossible to ignore-- but he has softer moments, too. quiet, gentle plucking of strings, the careful, slow strums of a man who plays only for the ears who will know what the notes will mean

Alfred: viola. slightly deeper than a violin, but mostly just warmer. a voice you hear and want to hum along to, a voice that sits in your ears before it sinks into your chest. it's gentle and sways with grace across strings and notes, it plays a harmony that supports and compliments, that is a steady through-line for everything that surrounds it

Dick: trumpet. brassy and loud and present and fuck do you KNOW when he's in the room. he's so bright and warm and MEANT to be heard. you hear him in your heart, every time he speaks, feel it deep in every vein like he's writing gospel into your DNA. and usually it's jazzy, it's excitement and riffs and improv and leaping off the page and doing cartwheels across a music staff-- but he's just as capable of whispersoft confessions of heartbreak and loss in D minor, can let loose a lament of all he's lost in an elegy of epic proportions

Barbara: harp. a challenging instrument to understand and play, and one she plays with ease. she is plucking strings with careful fingertips, strums across them all with a single hand. she's a melody that glides past your ears, a song that doesn't sink in-- if you're not paying attention to the hooks that latch into your brain. she is careful compositions and sweeping songs arranged for each audience with care. yet when she feels wrath, she shreds herself to make sure you feel it-- she takes scissors to her own strings to cut deeper than the song could alone

Jason: cello. deep and contemplative, with a sort of vibration that bites into your bones from the moment he opens his mouth. waxing poetic is his native tone, and it sounds like a bow dancing across strings and fingers traversing the frets like they were made for it, a soothing melody that could be a lullaby. when fury comes, the sound alone is so sharp where it's settled into your joints that you can't fight back; it's vicious strokes across the strings that shred the bow's hairs without care, wrath in every pull like it's a sword. he can settle into the orchestra or he can sweep them all offstage to stand alone against the conductor that dared to direct him

Cass: marimba. light and soft and so very deliberate. all those bars close together, and each hit with precision, because when Cass speaks, each sound and syllable is effort and choice and control. she is range and gentle dancing note to note and a sound that settles on your skin like a gentle rain, clinging and soft and so very present. to hear it is to hear if a storm could sing and serenaded the sky it calls home. she is echoing in an empty room until she fills it herself (i think of this specifically)

Tim: piano. it's all about the force put into it-- he can be the most careful, calculated guy in the room, playing with all the rigor and rigid professionalism of a NY Symphonic pianist. but the real Tim is the one who's fingers flutter playfully over the keys, who's voice cracks from laughter and sleep deprivation and stress, who trembles between octaves as his fingers tire but makes the leap anyway. he is clear ringing notes in a crowded room and rambling words like a glissando back and forth across the ivories, he is a song quiet enough to fall to the background but a complex and delicate tune if you care to listen

Steph: drum kit. she is all intensity and living in the moment and sharp impacts and a beat that never stops, never waits for the rest. she can get lost to the rest of the voices in a room, but you'll never shake that she's in your head, that her voice is there and present and presses against the base of your skull like it wants to worm straight in. she's rhythm and motion and changing things up just to do it; her voice hops from the snares to the bass to the snares and back to bass and never lets you think between notes, she's moving so fast, because it's all her, nothing she ever has to question, even if she makes you question with every slam on the cymbal

Damian: violin. he is careful in his every motion, ever meticulous with all he does; he lives in fear of being out of tune, of off-key notes for a long time, and so each one is practiced and known to the point of monotony. but over time, he thaws and the notes become more loose, more free-- he speaks less like his eyes are glued to the page, furiously tracking each note he'll play and more like the natural he is-- he becomes sharper in a different way than the rest of him, notes out of place that jut from the rest and it's okay that they do, a hum of songs that don't follow classic melodies and don't feel the need to. don't mistake it though-- his voice has always been as regal and pointed as the rest of him was raised to be, and his voice grabs both your ear and your eyes, dragging you to look at him, for him to be seen and noticed and given attention

Duke: saxophone. he is deep and rich and resonating. his voice is emotion and expression and honesty. his voice sits on your tongue because hearing him makes you want to speak, want to talk and chat and ramble with him, to reply to his melody with any harmony to match. he is a voice meant to be heard by many, who may not stand out in a room naturally but makes himself stand out by the passion in his voice. he is a slow, experimental hand that plays notes with hesitance until the rhythm hits him and suddenly, it's a melody of energy and power and a presence that he doesn't even know he has

[applepath]

@forgotten-elegy 's resident sad worm on a string.