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[voice test - Bill Denbrough]
Jul. 27th, 2018 03:51 pmKavinsky had been in Darrow long enough now that it was shaping up to be one of the longest places he'd been anywhere, if he was lucky. Even after only three years, he had thoughts that, maybe, hopefully, it was sort of a forever place. He had never really thought of a forever place, after his family had left Bulgaria. New Jersey certainly hadn't been a forever place, and they'd been there for as long as they'd been in Virginia. Now, Kavinsky had been in Darrow half as long as he'd been in any of those three places. If he managed just three more years here, he'd be able to neatly quarter his life--Bulgaria, New Jersey, Virginia, and Darrow--and then after that, everything would be here. That seemed an awful lot like a forever place to him.
He did not forget that people just arrived here. After all, he was an immigrant by nature and by circumstance in Darrow, and he'd had people show up in and around Arch Studio, and he himself had emerged from the forest--the old version of it, the one that hated him still--like a ghost or a dream. Still, it happened irregularly, or without rhyme or reason enough that sometimes Kavinsky could fool or kid himself. Maybe people arrived in Darrow as fully formed as the native folk. Maybe they'd just always been there and didn't know it. It was, perhaps, a more peaceful lie to tell themselves than the truth. That in some other version, they went off the rails, or they died, or they kept on existing without having left at all.
So Kavinsky wasn't thinking of anything in particular, that day. It wasn't a spectacular day. He wasn't doing anything in particular. He was missing the Evo in favor of the Golf, wishing the world hadn't turned inside out and backwards back in autumn. He was thinking of the future--of him and Newt, of Arch Studios, of everything--and listening to the world around him.
He wasn't entirely sure what had drawn him to the train station, but he was there. Sometimes he went, looked at Jack's old graffiti and smiled a little. Today, he was there and sitting on top of the Golf, watching people, smoking a cigarette and looking, he thought, a little less like a twenty year old that owned and ran a music label, and a little more like a gargoyle. With him, it was probably a bit of the same.
He did not forget that people just arrived here. After all, he was an immigrant by nature and by circumstance in Darrow, and he'd had people show up in and around Arch Studio, and he himself had emerged from the forest--the old version of it, the one that hated him still--like a ghost or a dream. Still, it happened irregularly, or without rhyme or reason enough that sometimes Kavinsky could fool or kid himself. Maybe people arrived in Darrow as fully formed as the native folk. Maybe they'd just always been there and didn't know it. It was, perhaps, a more peaceful lie to tell themselves than the truth. That in some other version, they went off the rails, or they died, or they kept on existing without having left at all.
So Kavinsky wasn't thinking of anything in particular, that day. It wasn't a spectacular day. He wasn't doing anything in particular. He was missing the Evo in favor of the Golf, wishing the world hadn't turned inside out and backwards back in autumn. He was thinking of the future--of him and Newt, of Arch Studios, of everything--and listening to the world around him.
He wasn't entirely sure what had drawn him to the train station, but he was there. Sometimes he went, looked at Jack's old graffiti and smiled a little. Today, he was there and sitting on top of the Golf, watching people, smoking a cigarette and looking, he thought, a little less like a twenty year old that owned and ran a music label, and a little more like a gargoyle. With him, it was probably a bit of the same.
