Rules

Since I can't find anybody who's good at being descriptive and a good writer I decided to make a post on hopes of that person finding me. 

FOR SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY. 

Example of the writing that I expect from the writer. 

it’s raining here, for the fourth day in a row he mentally counts on restless notes, the city is cascaded by perpetual storms since his arrival and the murky melancholy does nothing to elevate his own flatline mood. the window from his room is beaded with water and even with his preternatural vision, he sees nothing beyond the gunmetal. he could have been anywhere and nowhere all at once as far as he was concerned. but he works quickly, in and out — please the customer without ado, gladly arrange the slaughter of government enemies in consummate professionalism. all while never leaving these four walls. only sometimes he forgets where he is, what name he has entered choice country underneath, and the only reminders burning solid in his mind is a premise he sets up by writing out their deaths. the morbidity is as forgotten as his disregard for the sanctity of human life, the intimate attachment brings him a sense of comfort he often lacks and altogether avoids under false pretenses if he can. 

he hates poetry and he hates the sentiments shrieking like untamed beasts, longing for past fragments reminds him that fragility is equivalent to signing his name in red ink. it’s why he is motivated to scroll by his brothers name in the short contacts list — moonsoo, no … he was daon, the other brother died a long time ago — never replies to the unanswered messages collecting bulky inside his useless inbox. he would stumble out of bed in this hotel-room where he has been locked inside since his arrival into london, sheets wrapped in loops around his legs and cigarette in his mouth if he still smoked despite the craving singing at him alongside blood desperations, papers glued to his hands as he read until the words bled incoherently into one another; english was excess, never straight-forward enough, he hates it. 

he throws files and notes down onto his laptop, shoving it shut, flinging the thin device to the side as the knocking on the door draws his attention away — maybe he is entangled in his work leaving behind the ability to sense the essence awaiting, his only decision in seeing the familiar face at the door is to kill it or ignore it and hatred sears to the fundamental makeup of himself, picking the latter as he slams it back closed without as much as a shared word.