He builds up the dominoes. He takes them down. Piece by piece. These are the small actions that have begun to define him, and he lets them. He can always feel that familiar itch underneath his skin, the hunger, the lust, the thirst which swells to forces he can barely control. And so he builds them up, one after another after another. The dots of the dominoes become something else, a marker of his accomplishments — some kind of ghostly code that tells him he can do this. He can do this. His fingers ache and he tries not to think of what will happen if he knocks them all down, if he relapses into the fury of his kin and lets slip his mask and declares war. But he won't allow it. And so he builds up the dominoes. He takes them down. Piece by piece.



( I'll have you know I am a ruthless killer )

He knew, of course he knew, that it would have to come to this. But there are things that have also left him unguarded in this long moment, things that nothing could have prepared him for—mostly the feelings, the overwhelming swell of anger and protectiveness and the strange desperation. And then, of course, the resignation. He is not one to think that there is meaning behind any one moment of his life, seeing only the chaotic assembly, but somewhere he knows that if his life were to have any poetry at all, this would not be the final act. It would be the turn, the climax, and as he toes the edge, he can see John's dark shape down below, and feels the resignation turn toward determination. Maybe it doesn't have to be the final act after all.




( Before the fall, there was the pause. )

What he doesn't realize is that you know— and you love him all the same, because his freckles stain him like stars and his skin is rough and smooth at the same time, because his hair blows in the wrong direction when he faces the wind, because he lights up when he sees you though he tries to hide it in the curl of his hands, the twisting of his wrist inside his pocket, the furrow which begins to deepen on his brow. You know now, that you are all he has, and that it feels like a responsibility or an obligation, but it isn't—only now you have the ocean at your feet and it almost feels like freedom. The shore for you has always been some kind of stigma, a tragedy on the fringe of the world, but now it is made of beginnings, a newness and calmness that mirrors your steady hands.



( The ship is your idea. )

Life is thick: a forever, black-eyed cancer beneath the eyelids. It runs in little maps under the skin. It bursts dark from you, hot. The devil's honey. One day a soldier stumbles in the smoke, and his lips burn like steel abandoned in snow, and he would gladly take those gifts from you. He would kiss your neck and lap them up, sink his teeth into every part of you until you lay crumpled like a tissue good for nothing but a nose bleed, and even then, you've still got forever to look forward to. When salvation is in the mundane misfortunes - burning the toast, mopping up shit, losing your keys, undercooked pasta - the bad can only get badder. Because when all you want is to be invisible, your horrors shine brighter. The electric blood of the whole world is shrieking your ears. You are 116 years old and it will take every hungry breath in your dead-heart body to be more than a monster. It will take everything you are to be a man.



( Did you just call me 'deadly furniture?' )

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Dust settles in the corners of their eyes and the branches of their lungs, white staining their vision, breaths heavy with sand. The emptiness can be beautiful, can serve as a metaphor for their organs or their personal horizons, lets them blot out the sun with the curve of a thumb and wonder if that's all it really takes. They are warriors, but their boots are weighed with politics and they are marching a fragile line, ears straining for commands that come from tin cans, voices thick with static and numbers. But on they drive, and march, to ancient beats pulsing in the hot sand and the hot sky, waiting for the fire of danger to spark within them at any moment, fingers steady on their weapons. Acoustic guitars swell with their tempo, electricity zips up the strings to give them excitement, but static filters in and slows their footsteps as night washes the light from the world, letting their destruction become a celebration in the sky.



( Marines make do. )

There is something… different about Sookie Stackhouse, though he can't quite put his finger on it. He can see the fire in her, burning underneath her skin, lighting up her insides with anger and compassion and pride alike. It is curious. In all the years that have been swept up in his wake, steadying his hands and his mind and his indifference, there have been precious few times where he has become so intrigued by something. By someone. And while our blond barmaid senses his interest in her, and her abilities, she finds that trying to ignore the sparks he sets off in her is becoming increasingly difficult. And so the beginning of their journey is set to faltering, uncertain static, filtering between the hum of guitars and smooth voices weaving in out, letting their story unfold. But then— the synths. Sweeping electronic beats and orchestral crescendos slip in to represent the foreign territory they unwittingly begin to explore simply by catching the others' gaze— and soon they are well on their way, letting emotion dictate what their actions should be, with no room for logic and little for peace. Sookie's corner of Louisiana will never be the same again.



( Trust me. )

Major Children of Earth spoilers.



( In a thousand years' time— )

The future is clean, guitar as hot and sloping in his hand as a girl's electric back. Lightning steals loved ones and fire takes him places. What's a boy to do with one foot in timelessness and the other in detention? After all, clocks are fragile things, and plutonium is hard to come by. His tongue rings like thunder over telephone wires, voice stretched, the day, the year, the earth knows no bounds sloping into his throat. Infinity will strike across aviator eyes, dangling thin and cracking strings: hands he should not clasp, lips he (really) shouldn't kiss, dirt over graves that should not be trampled by restless feet - but still, he'll have a damn fine time cutting it close. Put the pedal down, Doc, and crank it up to 88. These are songs for Marty McFly. It's gonna get heavy.



( NOBODY CALLS ME CHICKEN )

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There is something lurking in the heart of Dr. Jackman; a shadow swirling inside him, waiting, waiting, waiting for the moment it can be free. Maybe there's a potion. Maybe there's just a girl. But somehow blood and lust and violence and glee surge up and overtake his soul, and suddenly the good Doctor's conscience blackens and chars; becomes something delightfully dark and twisted. Something which has been hiding. Say what you might; everyone has an alter-ego. His just happens to have a name and unfathomable power. And so eerie electronic beats provide the dark, enigmatic beginning of our modern Jekyll's journey, morphing into vocals as powerful as Hyde's appetite, all framed by electricity and wavering, mysterious voices which seem to insinuate a deeper and more dangerous kind of mind. Proceed if you dare.



( I love children, me! Snack-sized people always leave you wanting more. )

Blood; sometimes it sets his teeth on edge. Other times it helps him control the chaos. Because inside Dexter Morgan lurks a hunger for destruction-- for the cold steel of his knives and the lush rip they make against human flesh, for body parts tightly wrapped in saran wrap, lowered into the Gulf in hefty bags never to be seen again. Say what you like; he's a very neat monster. Having no human feelings can help the process too-- our dear demented serial killer remains empty inside, save for the code of his foster father and the skills needed for his survival. And when the moon is full and hanging plump in the Miami night, the Dark Passenger lies in wait, its deep chuckles rumbling through the mind of our darkly dreaming Dexter, hoping to slake its thirst for blood.



( Tonight's the night, and it's going to happen again and again. Has to happen. )