[He's pulling back into the room, before coming back with a wrapped gift in hand.]
Here. Happy birthday, Malkuth.
[Inside is...a golden-orange journal, carefully binded, with plenty of lined pages. All are blank, except for the first page, which reads, in scrawling, gentle text:]
[I will be gone from here and sing my songs In the forest wilderness where the wild beasts are, And carve in letters on the little trees The story of my love, and as the trees Will grow letters too will grow, to cry In a louder voice the story of my love.”]
no subject
[He's pulling back into the room, before coming back with a wrapped gift in hand.]
Here. Happy birthday, Malkuth.
[Inside is...a golden-orange journal, carefully binded, with plenty of lined pages. All are blank, except for the first page, which reads, in scrawling, gentle text:]
[I will be gone from here and sing my songs
In the forest wilderness where the wild beasts are,
And carve in letters on the little trees
The story of my love, and as the trees
Will grow letters too will grow, to cry
In a louder voice the story of my love.”]
[There's also a duck pen perched on the back cover. You know, for fun.]
[He casts his gaze a little sheepishly to the side.]
I want you to....write your story. If you want.