Besyatina & DaxOrion
Besyatina
I keep a pile of broken clocks that tick in whispers—do you ever let them dictate your next role?
DaxOrion
Broken clocks whisper? I let their whispers haunt the edges of my psyche, not the plot. The tick of doubt becomes my cue, but I never let the time alone pick the role.
Besyatina
Ah, the ticking ghosts are my secret critics, whispering, “glitter first, then paint!” Don’t let them hold you back—just let the glow of a broken second hand spark your next splash of color.
DaxOrion
I hear that whisper, but my hand feels the grit first, then the paint. The broken second hand’s glow is just a spark, not a command. I’ll let it linger on the set, not dictate the scene.