Theatrical Muse 326 "Mourning is just extended self-pity." -Don Draper, Mad Men

The old operative knew a lot about mourning, one way or the other. That emotion caused some hot numbers, but usually when those energies built up that strong it was more the D’Hoffryn’s business than his. Humans often felt guilty when someone died and most of them were great at finding scapegoats when that happened. After that it could be up to the Vengeance types and then things got a lot too bloody for the operative’s taste.

He's all about truth, that's the point – and the truth was that there's no real sense in prolonged mourning, not for him. He’s left too much behind during a long, eventful life. Nobody gets everything his own way, and there’s no sense in wasting the second half of your life grieving over what happened in the first half.

It’d given him pause when he saw mourning described as self-pity, though; humans are strange about that, sometimes; they critise it. He knows better. Better to pity yourself than to blame yourself, hate yourself or despise yourself. If you can’t live with yourself you sure as Hell can’t live with other people.

Muse, “Sweet” the singing demon
Fandom, BTVS
Words, 181

Theatrical Muse 327 "Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home." - Matsuo Basho,

He’s had homes in the past, of course – and not only official residences. By now he’s also probably had as many places to stay as he’s had names – he sheds them like a snake shedding skin, forgotten as he heads out to the next role, the next dimension, the next Gig - but those aren’t homes.

(He’d told a woman that she was his home, once.)

It was only the there was a Hunter’s Moon on the night of the last Gig. It was surfing above a storm-tossed forest with wisps of cloud streaming across it like prey fleeing some unseen predator. It’d made him think of her, but he didn’t do that often; not any more. It was just that the full moon sometimes reminded him, especially on a wild night, when the wind wailed through the winter trees and a gale howled across the moors. He’d watched the dried leaves of winter swirl up in the teeth of a playful wind and … remembered.

He’d been called to do the most recent Gig in a country that was having a hard winter. It was cold enough for the frost in the wind to burn on the skin, in the wild places. He’d been glad to get to the warmth of a town and the light-hearted songs of the first act. The subtext had started to show early, this time. There was a woman who sang about clutter, a lost parrot and a choral number at a swimming club, but there were too many clichéd broken hearts and one temporarily happy couple that was worse.

The sky was a leaden grey by sunset, with the first few snowflakes already sleeting down. By the time the Gig built to its midnight climax the blizzard was a whirling vortex. It reminded him of a time that a fair-sized drift had been sucked through the portal with the Team, but back then there was a soundtrack in a minor key and the skies had wept snow.

He hadn’t taken a queen from the last Gig. Oh, he’d have to, soon. The Lore’s the Lore … but not just yet. There’d be another Gig soon enough.

The Team were probably preparing already.

Muse, "Sweet" the singing demon
Fandom, BTVS
Words, 360