Oradriel
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Joined 08-20-04, id: 656869
Smoke rose, dancing off the tip of a newly lit cigarette. Lips caressing paper, whispers curling about flaring nostrils. An interface jutting out from a queer pile of hardware and screens. Holes littering walls surrounding a ghostly lite face. Persons talking out of proportion from another room. These voices silenced by the dripping of water, a cracked pipe? Maybe the condensation collecting on holy walls, or sweat, form a mans face.

Smoke, drawing breathless returns to a burned atmoshpere of forgotten metals. A machine, playing sounds of another mans breath, live, real, and false. Another inhale, another withdraw of comfort, another second wasted on typing.

"Fourty six,..?" The ghostly figure drenched in a screen's light whispered. Seemingly talking to itself, the machine responded. "Durnan is on his way as we speak, it shouldn't be long before he's there." Meloncholy echoed, as if this was not a responce, rather a reassurence. That another person was to be there, pressed for time and money. There, wouldn't be anywhere in a mans memory.

Merely a hole in the ground, daft to the rest of the world. Discounting the moaning of neighbors in heat, or false pictures rattling as vehicles passed. A little hole, under the minerals of the surrounding soil, on a created mass. Floating effortlessly thru an unfilled void called space. Atificial as ever, yet as real as can be.