[ Yi Sang places another piece of glass in his palm. It hits the surface of another fragment, bouncing off of it but ultimately landing in his hand. He repeats the motion, plucking another piece off the floor. This time, he places it down within the small pile gathering within his palm.
Only when Hong Lu speaks again does he raise his head. ]
A title...?
[ The notebook in his lap does not contain any defining features. Its covers are a plain dark brown, and its pages are marked with black lines. Sometimes, Yi Sang does not write with his letters sitting on those lines, and instead, allows his letters to fall all over the page. Others do not even contain words, but they hold little scribbles and sketches of the things he has seen, of the people he knows.
A book that contains so many different things -- how could he distill its contents down to a single title? He shakes his head in response. ]
It does not. Perhaps an appropriate title will spring to mind someday. Once its pages are full, I may be able to summarize its contents in an appropriate epitaph.
no subject
Only when Hong Lu speaks again does he raise his head. ]
A title...?
[ The notebook in his lap does not contain any defining features. Its covers are a plain dark brown, and its pages are marked with black lines. Sometimes, Yi Sang does not write with his letters sitting on those lines, and instead, allows his letters to fall all over the page. Others do not even contain words, but they hold little scribbles and sketches of the things he has seen, of the people he knows.
A book that contains so many different things -- how could he distill its contents down to a single title? He shakes his head in response. ]
It does not. Perhaps an appropriate title will spring to mind someday. Once its pages are full, I may be able to summarize its contents in an appropriate epitaph.