Spike stops for a moment by the glass doors, watching his reflection. He’s used to it now, the way he is followed in every mirror and window by a shadow.... like there’s two of him - new and old, living and dead, good and bad. But which is which he’s not really sure.
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ninetydegrees
no subject
2007-09-28 15:09 (UTC)Spike stops for a moment by the glass doors, watching his reflection. He’s used to it now, the way he is followed in every mirror and window by a shadow.... like there’s two of him - new and old, living and dead, good and bad. But which is which he’s not really sure.
You are a poet, sweetie. A bloody good poet.