#memoryserved . 001

[brutlistarchive]

     𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 , 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 . just as they had gone they are back again , they are a face that heugh has not seen before but he knows that it’s them because he would know that look anywhere , jacob heugh would know that jacket anywhere ; he has hung it over his arm and put it over their shoulders and had it sprawled across his home what must be a hundred times now , maybe a thousand . there’s guilt in his belly just as much as there was the thunderous gallop of all the syllables in their name punching out of his chest ; kennedy , kennedy , for hesitating , for the microsecond of caution . of course it’s them . who else would it be ??

     he thinks of them once for even the silliest things , too much soy in his stir fry     ---     it’s as if it’s their summons to his door ; and he smiles , and it says all the things they just don’t have the time for .     “     hey , kennedy .     “     so suddenly , heugh’s made so aware of all the gray that’s touched his hair . time has passed , hasn’t it . he’s a new child , now .     “     isn’t it a little hot to be wearing that ??     “ 

@memoryserved // sc

[timetear]

@memoryserved

          “Good lord, with each passing second of waiting in this infernal queue I can practically feel myself growing green hair and an inclination to move to some far off mountain. If I drop dead from boredom, do feel free to step over my body. You’ll be one person closer, if that helps at all.”

[dogfake]

@memoryserved​​

It’s been difficult to go through the motions. Or, the emotions. Or, the motion of emotions. The motion of emotions that Dr. Barks is expected to produce when reuniting dog and owner. Her illegal pet replicating hobby-job is a lot more performance heavy than she had anticipated. It’s exhausting. It’s annoying. Dr. Barks does not care and it is difficult to pretend otherwise when she has already “reunited” three “dogs” this month.

Number four: the miraculous reunion of Flipper the dog and Kennedy the human. Dr. Barks is sitting on their living room couch physically incapable of producing one single neurotransmitter of sympathetic intent. Musing aloud:

          “The size of it. You could almost flush it down the toilet.”