#readmore contains actual tillchard btw. not a segment i am using anywhere else which is why i can post it here

[magistralucis]

Ein Mensch brennt. Die Vögel singen nicht mehr. Tiefer Wasser sind nicht still. Die Wellen weinen leise. Wollt ihr das Bett in Flammen sehen? Wo das Meer zu Ende ist.

thats the good shit. now let me introduce you to a thing called tillchard 🤩👌

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Here is a list of Richard Kruspe's priorities, circa the early nineties.

Food.

Shelter.

Rest.

Just about everything Richard does revolves around those things. Busking, labouring, worrying his hands frantically in his pockets, waiting for his friend to open the door. It's honest but it ain't much, he'll chuckle through a mouthful of stolen smoke, should this triad be questioned; not that anyone has, nor should, since it's so elementary. This is a time of turmoil, and more and more people are coming around to his point of view as they pare down their needs to survive. As long as the basics are there Richard won't complain.

"Anyone ho-o-me…"

He would, however, prefer it if human affection could be the glue to hold them together. And it often is that way with Till. He has not actually seen Till for some time; he knows Till worries about him, too, and that he'd prefer to see Richard around more often.

"Ach, Scholle! - Don't you know it."

Get ready, sweetheart, I'm about to make your day.

The door creaks open. Richard's vision is greeted by a slice of honeyed lamplight, then a man's face beaming with it, broad and inquisitive with eyes of forest green. "Curious." He says, and following the self-descriptor, tilts his strong jaw to the side. A long shadow catches the corner of his mouth, makes a Cheshire out of him. "Here I was thinking I was promised a cat, but I seem to have landed a Scholle instead. Didn't realize they did upgrades."

Richard barks out a laugh. "For free, too!" He contemplates the way Till's voice brims in him for a moment - witty, dry, crackling with stars - then shifts his guitar over his shoulder. "Well, since he's all you've got, dinner for Scholle? Kis-kis-kis?"

"Come in. Dinner's ready."

Life can be cool sometimes. He'll give it that.

He is not, truth be told, always sure what Till is. It's not in the sense he isn't real, or that he's some kind of woodland sprite, as charming the image may be. It's more that Richard exists in a constant fog over what the man means to him, moreover, how Till can exist this way, his provisions and affections wholly unconditional for the sake of his friends - even to transients, wandering and aimless, like Richard ended up becoming. (He'd say it out loud, but Till gets upset whenever Richard describes himself as much.) He breathes a stream of white and claps his gloved hands together as they venture down the hall.