Day 1
[Isabelline. White. He can’t particularly remember where he’s heard the word before; he just knows that in some way, he likes it. A soothing name for a soothing color, unbiased in its simplicity, and its always been a color, a shade, that he’s associated with peace.]
[It would make sense that the solace of his own dreams would retain that simplicity in a theme and style he could take comfort in.]
[The walls are a smooth, plain white. There’s a small possibility, the slightest chance that they’re glowing, but Roxas is hardly concentrating on them at all. Nor does he even want to, at certain points. Now and again, that blank calm flickers and collapses like a screen to a projector, scenes playing out over and over again before they burst into static, lingering well after they’ve faded away; A boy and his keyblade; an island in ruin; a familiar face controlled by an unfamiliar person…]
[So Roxas keeps his eyes steadfastly down. These were things he had seen before; a dream within a dream, and he could taste the words falling from silent lips as each new image flickered to life, as every piece of static died. In his lap is a journal, and though there's no pen in his hand, words slowly spilled their way across the page, loops of ink formed by the bare existence of thought.]
[Roxas keeps his eyes down. It was best to remain lost in the churning of his own thoughts than disappear into the abyss of Sora’s memories.]
[It would make sense that the solace of his own dreams would retain that simplicity in a theme and style he could take comfort in.]
[The walls are a smooth, plain white. There’s a small possibility, the slightest chance that they’re glowing, but Roxas is hardly concentrating on them at all. Nor does he even want to, at certain points. Now and again, that blank calm flickers and collapses like a screen to a projector, scenes playing out over and over again before they burst into static, lingering well after they’ve faded away; A boy and his keyblade; an island in ruin; a familiar face controlled by an unfamiliar person…]
[So Roxas keeps his eyes steadfastly down. These were things he had seen before; a dream within a dream, and he could taste the words falling from silent lips as each new image flickered to life, as every piece of static died. In his lap is a journal, and though there's no pen in his hand, words slowly spilled their way across the page, loops of ink formed by the bare existence of thought.]
[Roxas keeps his eyes down. It was best to remain lost in the churning of his own thoughts than disappear into the abyss of Sora’s memories.]