"All the time," Prior admits in a distant voice. He isn't entirely certain why he's found himself in the company of Kyle Broflovski again — lord relieve him that temptation — but he notes with some chagrin that he doesn't mind it as much in this moment than he might otherwise. There's a comfort in that familiarity, apparently. Surely someone dissenting of Prior (or otherwise) would have something to say about that, but they're not here and it's only Prior's own dissent echoing in his ears.
"One moment you're suckling sweet on mother's milk, the next you're painting a face on a scarecrow because you don't trust yourself to get the bayonet all the way in." Morbid? Perhaps. Irrelevant? Only just, and if one squints hard enough Prior figures anyone can see anything they wish to whether it's there or not. Perhaps in Kyle's world it's not scarecrows and bayonets, but sure as he is in his few short decades on earth, Prior's sure of this: every generation must grow up earlier than the last.
His distant thoughts aren't drawn any closer by the flare of the lighter, and as he takes a long draw on his cigarette, he allows himself to be fascinated with watching it disappear into the rolling fog. The sound of the water lapping at the shore reminds him of home. He can picture Sarah — his dear, sweet Sarah, sulfured yellow and carefully maudlin — being windswept, her bright orange flare of hair covered in tiny specks of surf.
Prior huffs.
"They don't even let the balls drop anymore before they're shoving them out the door and ask them to save the world," he finally says through his smoke. He doesn't count himself among his declaration, apparently: No shoves had been needed — he'd practically ran out the door to get away from his childhood.
iii. Beach
"One moment you're suckling sweet on mother's milk, the next you're painting a face on a scarecrow because you don't trust yourself to get the bayonet all the way in." Morbid? Perhaps. Irrelevant? Only just, and if one squints hard enough Prior figures anyone can see anything they wish to whether it's there or not. Perhaps in Kyle's world it's not scarecrows and bayonets, but sure as he is in his few short decades on earth, Prior's sure of this: every generation must grow up earlier than the last.
His distant thoughts aren't drawn any closer by the flare of the lighter, and as he takes a long draw on his cigarette, he allows himself to be fascinated with watching it disappear into the rolling fog. The sound of the water lapping at the shore reminds him of home. He can picture Sarah — his dear, sweet Sarah, sulfured yellow and carefully maudlin — being windswept, her bright orange flare of hair covered in tiny specks of surf.
Prior huffs.
"They don't even let the balls drop anymore before they're shoving them out the door and ask them to save the world," he finally says through his smoke. He doesn't count himself among his declaration, apparently: No shoves had been needed — he'd practically ran out the door to get away from his childhood.