Still sweeping - sure to be thorough - the orderly starts humming quietly. He has no great talent for music, that's evident enough from the start, but nevertheless, the cadence is somehow... soothing.
Steadily, rhythmically, he moves with a certain metronomic precision - one that has little to do with physical grace (he's of a height with Gabriel, or a little more - face turned away and hair tousled, they could be the same - but his proportions are awkward, curiously elongated), and more to do with the way he seems to inhabit his body; like something apart from him, a wondrous machine, well-learned and finely-tuned.
His arm extends, shoulder, elbow, wrist, with the delicate accuracy of wires and cogs, that (tick) sometimes seems so (tick) organic. The long handle of the brush in his hand, and the bristles sweeping back: a dry, hissing rustle across the floor.
"Gray, gray, my life is gray, cold is my heart since you went away..."
And snowflakes puff softly into the back of the pan.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-02-08 05:57 am (UTC)Steadily, rhythmically, he moves with a certain metronomic precision - one that has little to do with physical grace (he's of a height with Gabriel, or a little more - face turned away and hair tousled, they could be the same - but his proportions are awkward, curiously elongated), and more to do with the way he seems to inhabit his body; like something apart from him, a wondrous machine, well-learned and finely-tuned.
His arm extends, shoulder, elbow, wrist, with the delicate accuracy of wires and cogs, that (tick) sometimes seems so (tick) organic. The long handle of the brush in his hand, and the bristles sweeping back: a dry, hissing rustle across the floor.
"Gray, gray, my life is gray, cold is my heart since you went away..."
And snowflakes puff softly into the back of the pan.