The chasms seemed to go on for eternies, a maze underneath the membrane, dark walls, spent conversing, after the initial identity conversion. Catching up to each other, but mostly, she listened, only dropping simple comments on great feats, the meek voice she's always had. The feeling of guilt, of overshadowing one's fellow citizen, only creeped up more as I talked, and yet, she never interupted. And then, she did, just to alert me to not knocking my head on the trap-door, and once we were out, oh, a sight to see.
And almost as I was too zoned out memorizing, engulfing in this beauty, she spoke once more, and I was to listen to her, the savior.
"Did you ever get my name, Lobster?" And it dawned on me, the one i idolized in the head as an angel to be seen amongst the backgrounds of my life, the angel sent to bring me into stardom, freedom unseen within those depths -- I had never even gotten a name from her within those years.
And so, the name was spoken, and then a muffled bit I couldn't catch, but finally, her name, the name of the angel, Mocha Ray. Mocha Ray. Beautiful. I shall wear it out forever. And so, the conversational continued, or rather, the endless talks I gave, loved.
And stopped at a certain part at the end-south of the halls, to a small, temporary set-up low table, two cushions, perhaps borrowed, a bit frayed, and a teapot, passed down from who knows. And we sat, and without a word, she poured a glass, hot, a contrast to the temple's cold air.