Maybe it's Greg's willingness to let him continue, or maybe it's the fact that he's playing again - either way, Sans starts feeling at ease enough to continue. Even if he isn't really sure what kind of point he's trying to make. It'd be so easy to just brush it off as not at all about him, just one more thing outside of his control or care...
Damn it, he's trying to do the right thing for once, and it just isn't working right. He spent all that time in the bathroom, the whole shuttle ride back, rolling over the events of the night again and again but it doesn't fit together right. It doesn't make a whole picture. What does he have to do to get his head together in a way that makes sense?
"You wanna know why I dropped that glass so fast when you came up? It was because there was something so...so perfectly jarring about you just waltzing on up and...and assuming the best out of me. You're always doing that, and it's painful to watch, man, I just...I don't know where it comes from."
His blunt is about finished. He tosses it.
"Nothing makes you feel worse than some dope falling for you hook, line, and sinker. 'N what I don't get is why you keep falling for me." There's a moment of pause there, and it seems like he backtracks, like that isn't quite the route he intended to take. "I mean...I don't want to give you the wrong impression, here. I'm not exactly a bleeding heart."
"If I just sit here and, uh, say...let's blame magic singing, or whatever. You're just gunna wipe my record clean and that's that. It doesn't really strike me as fair." He wishes he still had something to be doing with his hands. He shouldn't have thrown that blunt away. What the hell is he trying to say? He doesn't really know anymore. He stands up again and paces around, tucking his hands into his coat pockets.
"There's something to it, isn't there?" he finally says, tapping his temple with a pair of fingers. "All the stuff going on in our heads? There pretty much has to be, now, with...with all this. Can't just write it off as a gag anymore. Memories, visions, whatever. It's gotta mean something."
"I killed a kid, Greg," he says, finally, the point he's leading up to through this whole rant. "I killed a kid and I didn't even feel bad. I still don't. I don't even feel half bad about just going to bed tonight and carrying on like this was just another day at work. I did it before, and I'll do it now."
no subject
Maybe it's Greg's willingness to let him continue, or maybe it's the fact that he's playing again - either way, Sans starts feeling at ease enough to continue. Even if he isn't really sure what kind of point he's trying to make. It'd be so easy to just brush it off as not at all about him, just one more thing outside of his control or care...
Damn it, he's trying to do the right thing for once, and it just isn't working right. He spent all that time in the bathroom, the whole shuttle ride back, rolling over the events of the night again and again but it doesn't fit together right. It doesn't make a whole picture. What does he have to do to get his head together in a way that makes sense?
"You wanna know why I dropped that glass so fast when you came up? It was because there was something so...so perfectly jarring about you just waltzing on up and...and assuming the best out of me. You're always doing that, and it's painful to watch, man, I just...I don't know where it comes from."
His blunt is about finished. He tosses it.
"Nothing makes you feel worse than some dope falling for you hook, line, and sinker. 'N what I don't get is why you keep falling for me." There's a moment of pause there, and it seems like he backtracks, like that isn't quite the route he intended to take. "I mean...I don't want to give you the wrong impression, here. I'm not exactly a bleeding heart."
"If I just sit here and, uh, say...let's blame magic singing, or whatever. You're just gunna wipe my record clean and that's that. It doesn't really strike me as fair." He wishes he still had something to be doing with his hands. He shouldn't have thrown that blunt away. What the hell is he trying to say? He doesn't really know anymore. He stands up again and paces around, tucking his hands into his coat pockets.
"There's something to it, isn't there?" he finally says, tapping his temple with a pair of fingers. "All the stuff going on in our heads? There pretty much has to be, now, with...with all this. Can't just write it off as a gag anymore. Memories, visions, whatever. It's gotta mean something."
"I killed a kid, Greg," he says, finally, the point he's leading up to through this whole rant. "I killed a kid and I didn't even feel bad. I still don't. I don't even feel half bad about just going to bed tonight and carrying on like this was just another day at work. I did it before, and I'll do it now."
And he still doesn't get why.