Caspian had leisured about his boudoir, well-nigh tarrying, dare he admit endlessly. He was forced to contend with his introspection, now feverishly becoming reconciled with his continuous rotting. Yes, that's what it was, rotting. Rotting within his forlorn chambers and on the verge of yielding and permitting his perturbations to gnaw at the walls of his wit. It was almost as if Caspian had erected pristine phases, the fidgeting, the pacing, the chafe he had caused upon his temple. He was not at fault. For there was nothing he would do to aid it. Whatever he did now, it was out of anguish. Anguish and repentance.
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Shenanigans
Short StorySmall snippets ive written or windows into scenes im writing
