there's no sign of the morning coming—

[immortalized]

𝔇𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔰, 𝔡𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔩𝔢𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔤𝔬?
𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔡, 𝔡𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔥𝔦𝔡𝔢, 𝔡𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢
ℑ𝔰 𝔦𝔱 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞 𝔭𝔦𝔠𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢, 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔫 𝔦𝔪𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢
𝔚𝔢'𝔯𝔢 𝔞 𝔩𝔦𝔢, 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ
𝔚𝔢'𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔞 𝔯𝔥𝔶𝔪𝔢

Comments

[mangakant]

"Yes. Yes, exactly. It happens in the mind. And if you know what to show it to trigger certain emotions...then you can tell a meaningful story." Rohan's voice grows a little more passionate, almost heated. He looks at his art, because he is, at least in flushed moments, proud of it. But he doesn't tend to linger over what he's already created; he doesn't feverishly revisit it except to keep storylines consistent but varied, to ensure pacing and style are recognizable.

Rohan doesn't bask in what he's already done, because he's too busy obsessively figuring out the next part. And it's that laser focus on what's next that has him paying more attention to Ambrose than to what they're talking about, what's right next to them.

As he speaks, he lets the sketch pad fall further from his chest, no longer clinging to it protectively. A half-feral energy spurs him past self-consciousness.

At the edge of the page, a familiar man dressed and decorated like a woman can be just glimpsed...

"The answer is yes, of course. You need a vehicle for the audience, but I've— pulled from a variety of sources to craft him." Some of which Rohan barely remembered until the events of this summer, just barely passed. Autumn's begun, Kira is dead. Reimi's been dead for fifteen years.

Rohan hadn't realized how much he had just-barely remembered of her until he'd gone back to writing his manga after speaking with her and the cemetery keeper. "The answer of who he comes from isn't nearly as interesting as what's done with him, though. The source isn't as important as the output." Spoken with no small degree of dismissiveness.

At his core...Rohan just doesn't know how to express any of the emotions he feels about his own work. He'd rather talk technique or drive or maybe even admit his feverish need to create, but not the softer core of what happens between those pages.