Imperatus Rex
Semper Imperatus
Smoke mixed with vapors, the youthful engineer brings the tobacco to his lips, and puffs out the dark clouds mixing with the coffee steam. The underside of his pinky stained with shiny lead. His eyes show a strong emotion through the thick smoke, frustration and inspiration. Most dreadful mix of passion and agony he could perceive. His notebook is filled with graphs and formulas, as if an artwork on the algorithms of his mechanical mind. Small sketches of primitive geometry were condensed into the corner of the paper, too vague to understand.
The lady sitting next to him chugs her black-eye, and scribbles arts as pastime while her scones were due for arrival. Her gaze was locked on the napkin she drew upon, with an aloof glare when she chugged the coffee. Her left fingers was coated in dusty charcoal as she sketched with a strong energy.
The aged scholar sitting at a table making notes in his books, labeling everything he found relevant to whatever his quest pertained to. His hair was grey, and his wrinkles were deeply carved into his face. He writes down important notes and numbers on his forearm, staining his weary skin in thick gel ink. His eyes are focused on his literature, and his spare hand is stirring the black espresso absent of reason.
Clockwork minds work for eternity, rejecting any flaws they see. Their graphite scars soaking into the blood, poisoning them with lust for perfectionism. Nothing can break this scope of reality.
The lady sitting next to him chugs her black-eye, and scribbles arts as pastime while her scones were due for arrival. Her gaze was locked on the napkin she drew upon, with an aloof glare when she chugged the coffee. Her left fingers was coated in dusty charcoal as she sketched with a strong energy.
The aged scholar sitting at a table making notes in his books, labeling everything he found relevant to whatever his quest pertained to. His hair was grey, and his wrinkles were deeply carved into his face. He writes down important notes and numbers on his forearm, staining his weary skin in thick gel ink. His eyes are focused on his literature, and his spare hand is stirring the black espresso absent of reason.
Clockwork minds work for eternity, rejecting any flaws they see. Their graphite scars soaking into the blood, poisoning them with lust for perfectionism. Nothing can break this scope of reality.
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