Finally, she allows herself to be led. Out of the hatch. Down the corridor. Into the Boop and into the black. Thrusters burning bright, hurling them into the gleaming blue. Her eyes shining with the light of it. Beneath, between, beyond.
those days when you don’t want to exist, blanket burritos and the sound of rain drumming against the windowpanes, tender caring for potted plants, cutting your own hair, mismatched outfits and dyeing clothes, silently mouthing poems, cake crumbs and loose threads and the last lingering notes of a song, teetering on the edge of pavements, imagining alternate universes, insomnia or sleeping for sixteen hours and nothing in between. (requested by @jordsie)
I didn’t see this up anywhere yet, but if there is one then please let me know! I also attempted a translation at his lines and so usual disclaimer about not taking these translations as gospel, blah blah.
EDIT2: Fixed some wording in Marx’s lines because I did his translations when I was still rusty from my translation hibernation. I’m confident in his S-rank line now btw… which makes sense if you’ve listened to Takumi’s lines.
muddy boots and unmade beds, days with the duvet pulled over your head, cigarettes and old cassettes, clinking glasses, dingy bars, bad ideas and dangerous grins, improvised meals, dirty dishes, easy banter and talking shit, strumming on guitar and lazy drumbeats, concerts and streetlights and alleyways and driving around with nowhere to go, no fucks left to give. (requested by @jordsie)