(no subject)

[http://users.livejournal.com/_pale_ghost_/]

Ghost's spent his entire day out-of-doors, and the pale swatches of skin behind his ears and at the nape of his neck are already pink with would-be sunburn, and the rest is splotched with cool, damp-smelling dirt.

The throaty Carolina voice carries rough and sweet, gravel and honey, singing words that weren't quite words while he crouches in a flowerbed, carefully pulling weeds from between the flowers. "Pullin' weeds and pickin stones, man is made of dreams and bones."