[Open] Jazz Jin, Late August
Aug. 19th, 2024 06:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gorobo He wonders why he even bothers coming here.
The singer is as fake as ever, and so is her voice. She's nothing like the one at home, with her rich, sultry voice, capturing all the notes exactly right for a live performance. There's a certain grit to a live performance that he likes, the perfect imperfections of it all, that this cognitive fake so obviously lacks. It pisses him off, causes the black tar pit in his circuit boards to expand, swallowing him whole. At this rate, he might as well put on a CD at home.
Even so, here he is once more, watching the fake perform under the dimmed lights of Jazz Jin.
Despite her fakeness, the lack of Muhen-san, and just... everything in general, he can't help but enjoy the atmosphere. It rankles, knowing that he is so easily pleased by something so fake. So easily lulled into a false sense of authenticity. It misses some very obvious things, but-
-oh, whatever. He's done plenty of feeling like shit in the past days. Who cares if he lets himself have this? It's not real, but it's the best he's got in this prison.
He watches as the fake gets ready to perform a set, leaning back in his chair at his regular table.
If someone were to walk in, they might catch the brooding stare in his eyes.
The singer is as fake as ever, and so is her voice. She's nothing like the one at home, with her rich, sultry voice, capturing all the notes exactly right for a live performance. There's a certain grit to a live performance that he likes, the perfect imperfections of it all, that this cognitive fake so obviously lacks. It pisses him off, causes the black tar pit in his circuit boards to expand, swallowing him whole. At this rate, he might as well put on a CD at home.
Even so, here he is once more, watching the fake perform under the dimmed lights of Jazz Jin.
Despite her fakeness, the lack of Muhen-san, and just... everything in general, he can't help but enjoy the atmosphere. It rankles, knowing that he is so easily pleased by something so fake. So easily lulled into a false sense of authenticity. It misses some very obvious things, but-
-oh, whatever. He's done plenty of feeling like shit in the past days. Who cares if he lets himself have this? It's not real, but it's the best he's got in this prison.
He watches as the fake gets ready to perform a set, leaning back in his chair at his regular table.
If someone were to walk in, they might catch the brooding stare in his eyes.
