𝑪꩜𝑴𝑬 𝑨𝑺 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑨𝑹𝑬 .ᐟ⟢ˎˊ˗

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀𝚆𝙴𝙻𝙻 , 𝙸 𝚂𝚆𝙴𝙰𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 ⠀⠀⠀𝙸 𝙳𝙾𝙽’𝚃 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰 𝙶𝚄𝙽 . ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

are you there? will you answer my prayer?

in its place, the hand which had grown intimately acquainted with the console darts outward to make good friends with the dash board to prevent his forehead from crashing into that very same spot. his ribs ached ——— his wrist likely sprained from the action alone, ﹠ now his

for the grab bar on the ceiling, the motion forces his back to collide unceremoniously with his car seat whilst the one not haphazardly secured around the handle splays upon the council in an effort to brace himself. “ what the 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡 is wrong with you .ᐣ ”

you're the culprit、so don't blame me when i'm gone and you have naught。when you're hollowed out and empty from your pulpit、what will you preach .ᐣ

the patriarch’s gait is a mite too purposeful on feet that feel too light to gain any purchase on ground dampened by afternoon drizzle. an expression befitting of a disgruntled, old mutt forming on scruffy features at the insinuation. “ i wouldn’t pray to you on my death bed. ”

his breath, controlled as though its intent were to soothe, belies not irritation but the will he lacks to carry it upon his broad shoulders in the first place. it isn’t an unusual possession for him to have, but to see him sat with it near reminiscent is a conflict of nature.