The cigarette in River's hand is a thorny stem, the end smoldering with the same drifting white smoke. Maybe it always was. She holds it with the same careless, dreamy grace.
The walls around them are white, painted, clean. They stretch up past vision.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-12-09 04:53 am (UTC)The walls around them are white, painted, clean. They stretch up past vision.
Small: "I don't want to leave."