Classic converse treaded silently along the terrain, only causing a faint stirr as they made contact with the foliage. Vibrant, almost surreal azure occuli were locked firmly upon the geo, chipping obsidian varnished finger tip's grazing the notepad which was held captive in the pocket of his denims. Enamel's were produced from the rosen flesh barrier, clasping the lower of the two rosen muscles between them. Larynx constricted, releasing a barely audible amount of carbon dioxide into the air. Cranium was poised toward the ground, messily done thatches resting upon his facial features, not easily aroused by the pathetic gusts of wind which were cast upon his masculine brawn. Salmon muscle was erected from the fleshy interior, running along the form of his labio's.

Ah, he'd finally found the perfect view. Just of which place? Both were very museful. Cranium was tilted from side to side, admiring the ghastly beauty of each scene. The graveyard - which held an eeire beauty beyond words if you asked Cole - or the church - which also held great potential for a painting. Enamel's tugged absent mindedly at his lower labia, cerebrum racing to come up with the best portrait. Well, whichever he didn't pick now, he could always come back and do another time. Finally he settled with the graveyard, finding the church too God like; religion based. Fuck religion. What a stupid waste of fucking time. It enraged him. The stupidity of some people, willing to waste their lives believing in that bullshit. Now, if someone could answer how the hell it was actually possible for God to exist, Cole would be very impressed. But so far, he'd heard no theory that didn't have it's flaws.

Another soft sigh was expelled from the masc, lower column's bending at the joints, lowering his physique to the foliage. Spinal cord was propped against the hard outline of a timber, dome tilted backward slightly to rest upon it. Finger tip's grasped the blank notepad, dragging it out of the denim shelter. The cover was flipped, exposing one of the many alabaster pages. Unoccupied palm slid back into the crease, pulling out a sketching pencil. It was true, Cole never went anywhere without these items. They were his life. Some may call it weird, but hey, you never know when you might see something inspiring. Denture's clamped down upon the oral muscle, a habit of his concentration. Cobalt's studied the graveyard for a moment, then the contact was made. Lead hitting paper. And the masterpiece was begun. A series of fluid movements were made, grayscale picture slowly forming.

ooc; liam's to reply to. x]
& totally crappy x.x