one word [obsessed]
(ref: here)
They were men; garbed in black leather, armed with frustration and righteousness, they strode tall across the night sky.
Turning her head, Sammy whispered to her cat, "I can't get it right. The scene feels wrong."
They were strangers; black on black, the men strode mercilessly into the night; their shadows as dark fingers in burrows unknown.
Drawing a bright, red line through the type-written lines, Sammy sighed again. "Why can't I begin," she asked again. Tearing the paper from the machine, her knuckles gently buckled. "I'm so tired and it just isn't working. But IT MUST!"
They were warriors; twelve strong, their weapons at the ready, operated as a well-oiled machine as they strode toward the horizon. Silence seemed to precede their steps and gaze as a circle of apparent calm surrounded their gaze and footsteps.
"I ... why ..." cried Sammy, as her clear vision for the scene faltered. "I ... cannot see ... I'm so ... " thought Sammy, as she leaned into the keys. Clacking away, she typed silently and with eyes closed.
Armored and trim the cadre functioned with one mind; into their dead master's ancient castle, leaving dispatched guards as breadcrumbs, the twelve swordsmen strode as hidden whispers and reclaimed the nooks and niches where once they had trained. For two decades, each had honed skills and developed strengths to profound levels of excellence and this, the anniversary of his death, had seen the old crew together. No missive had brought them together - each had felt a pressing need to return and a simple nod had turned strangers again to brothers: they were home.
They were men; garbed in black leather, armed with frustration and righteousness, they strode tall across the night sky.
Turning her head, Sammy whispered to her cat, "I can't get it right. The scene feels wrong."
They were strangers; black on black, the men strode mercilessly into the night; their shadows as dark fingers in burrows unknown.
Drawing a bright, red line through the type-written lines, Sammy sighed again. "Why can't I begin," she asked again. Tearing the paper from the machine, her knuckles gently buckled. "I'm so tired and it just isn't working. But IT MUST!"
They were warriors; twelve strong, their weapons at the ready, operated as a well-oiled machine as they strode toward the horizon. Silence seemed to precede their steps and gaze as a circle of apparent calm surrounded their gaze and footsteps.
"I ... why ..." cried Sammy, as her clear vision for the scene faltered. "I ... cannot see ... I'm so ... " thought Sammy, as she leaned into the keys. Clacking away, she typed silently and with eyes closed.
Armored and trim the cadre functioned with one mind; into their dead master's ancient castle, leaving dispatched guards as breadcrumbs, the twelve swordsmen strode as hidden whispers and reclaimed the nooks and niches where once they had trained. For two decades, each had honed skills and developed strengths to profound levels of excellence and this, the anniversary of his death, had seen the old crew together. No missive had brought them together - each had felt a pressing need to return and a simple nod had turned strangers again to brothers: they were home.
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