(text.)

[ioudas]

❝ the lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, o lord, endures forever. do not forsake the work of your hands. ❞

psalms

do you actually believe that, though? do you believe in destiny or do you believe that it is our own? discuss.

also, since we're having a deep conversation. google would have made my life a whole lot easier if it had existed in the 1800s. then again there would not be young men saying that they love vintage victorian erotica more than the mainstream kind (here's a hint: it's still erotica).

if you're a really old guy wearing a hood over your head, you owe me a saturday night for the one you ruined. cash only.

(ooc: sorry, this got really NSFW)

Comments

voice

[ioudas]

We're allowed to dream and wish, without that, it's just monotonous.

voice

[jupiterson]

Dreams and wishes aren’t the same as expectations.

voice

[ioudas]

They should be.

voice

[jupiterson]

Some things aren’t possible no matter how much you wish for them. Knowing that isn’t about believing in fate or having faith. It’s just something everyone finds out as they grow up.

[ So why do you still think that way, Cross? ]

voice

[ioudas]

Your life is making me want to drink.

voice

[jupiterson]

How do you know yours is any different? Maybe the only difference is that I know fate has its hand in mine, and you don’t.

voice

[ioudas]

My life is my life. What I choose to do with it, regardless whether or not fate has dictated where it ends up, is mine to ruin.

voice

[jupiterson]

[ A pause. ]

And that’s how you think of it, as a ruin?

voice

[ioudas]

It's yours to do whatever you want with.

voice

[jupiterson]

So, you want it to be a ruin.

[ Geez, Cross. You remind him of Spike. Why do all of these people seem to think so poorly of themselves? ]

voice

[ioudas]

Society says ruin. I think liquor and prostitutes are a lot of fun, actually.

voice

[jupiterson]

[ Jason shrugs, not willing to make a judgement since he thinks that’s what’s expected. ] If that’s your destiny.

voice

[ioudas]

Just as a the weary traveler finds his way to the soft bosom.