Anything, really. We're responsible for the birds that can't fly, because their wings have been clipped, because they're waterlogged, because they don't think they can leave the pond they sit stagnate on...

[ she trails off, then takes her glass up again for a lack of anything to do and sips at it again. long, thoughtless sips. maybe her words are a bit slower in that way drink ebbs at you, the way it had beneath blossoming trees, but she awake as she focuses across the room. two bands are better than one. ]

Don't you think you're opening a path for those sinners of yours? You're their guide, after all. Maybe they can't see the way to go... the pond they're sitting in might be dammed, or has a small opening they can't find... but you know the flow. You know the way, even if they're the ones who have to choose to go down it themselves.

[ that's flow, you choose to go or you don't; inevitable as it is, either you follow the river or the river swells until it drowns you. that's what she's thinking, picturing. easier that than herself on the dance floor she wants to join, tucked against someone she does or doesn't know.

they're the same, they are. ]