Words don't stick. [ Yeah. As for the rest of it, Sylar's got about the gist of it. He hums in agreement. And appreciation. He's glad for the words - he wishes he could request them. ] That.
[ The cloak digs its knife fingers into the floor, almost kneading at it. Frustrated, almost upset: ] Dying didn't stick.
no subject
[ The cloak digs its knife fingers into the floor, almost kneading at it. Frustrated, almost upset: ] Dying didn't stick.