/Jean classifies this encounter as ‘a realistic dream that I’ll most probably forget when I do come to but I doubt I’d live on without recalling some of it because damn look at her eyes’ and decides it best to entertain whatever form of stupidity his mind is so bent on conjuring just to pass the time.
Except that he can’t really think of a much better response besides simply looking at her and taking notice of what he gathers she’s done to his mind. Walls. Thing.
He should really come up with a better name for it./
Pretty spot on, actually.
/Not much of an accent. He really must be dreaming./
Where’d you come from, petite?
Delirium feels like creating and decides that doing an actual drawing on the walls is better than just splattering them with paint. That might or might not cause a permanent effect on the mind —who knows. Who cares. Oh yes, she should care, but the drawings are occupying too many space in her head to allow thinking about consequences. Perhaps she’ll be regretting things later.
“From a baby’s mind. Or two. One and a half?” she scratches her head, staining her hair with yellow paint, and keeps drawing.
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