[kavinsky points through the doorway. the bathroom is right through, the door off to the right. it's a good-looking bathroom, shiny and chrome, but already in something of a need for cleaning. kavinsky has a rather stereotypical privileged white boy's concept of cleaning. smears of dust gathering in the edges here or there, toothpaste streaking the mirror, although it smells bright and sweet with chemical agents. he actually follows the death god into there, tossing a new towel over the top of the toilet tank.
in the meantime, kavinsky's fetching the trimmer from the drawer. turning some hot water on in the faucet, some soap for sterilization.]
You got anything in mind or you want me to use some creative freedom? [he calls. he does sound-- less sad. for better or worse.]
no subject
in the meantime, kavinsky's fetching the trimmer from the drawer. turning some hot water on in the faucet, some soap for sterilization.]
You got anything in mind or you want me to use some creative freedom? [he calls. he does sound-- less sad. for better or worse.]