skin, bone, and arrogance
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6XHLcIGESY
There's no sunshine this impossible year
Only black days and sky grey and clouds full of fear
And storms full of sorrow that won't disappear
Just typhoons and monsoons this impossible year
Hoth was a contradiction. On the one hand, the ruins of Echo Base provided the Resistance with the sort of established base with resources they couldn't have imagined this early in their existence. While Project Junkpile was ongoing, Echo Base provided shelter, and safety, and the secrecy that they so required to maintain operations. But it was bitter cold, so cold that it hurt, even during bright and sunny days. It was a hell of a thing to get sunburn and frostbite at the same time. Even inside the base, each breath was like a frigid knife; despite the air being a few degrees warmer than the outside, they couldn't warm the base enough for comfort without melting the place.
There's no good times this impossible year
Just a beachfront of bad blood and a coast that's unclear
All the guests at the party, they're so insincere
They just intrude and exclude this impossible year
The woman who had once been Imogen Fortan sat in the cockpit of Cranberry Cocktail. They had landed half a cycle before and Evelin had elected to get a jump-start on the inventory so that she might have some useful information to provide to [member="Nara Basaar"] when the logistics officer came. She had decided to take a break with a hot cup of caff in the cockpit, and was now engrossed in a photograph on the dash of the freighter. It showed a tall, slender, glacially beautiful woman in a crimson evening gown, her lips turned up at the edges in a tiny little smile and her heavily-lidded eyes glancing sideways at a honey-blonde woman with clear blue-green eyes. Though the color of the eyes and hair, the hairstyle and the clothes were different, on close examination Evelin recognized herself next to Natasi. It was taken a decade ago, at her coming out ball. Natasi had been out for a year, had proven to be one of the most glamorous and in-demand debutantes of that season. Imogen had never felt capable of living up to her.
There's no you and me this impossible year
Only heartache and heartbreak and gin made of tears
The bitter pill I swallow, the scar souvenir
That tattoo, your last bruise this impossible year
She stood and walked back into the cargo hold, stashing the photo and her caff thermos on a shelf near the entrance. "Now, where was I?" she murmured to herself, moving to the nearest open crate. "Ah -- silver." She said firmly and picked up her clipboard before sitting cross-legged on the deckplates. She hefted a bag of tarnish-proof materials and poured the contents onto a towel before her. "Salad forks," she wrote in the ledger, speaking out loud to herself before beginning to count them. If she remembered correctly, they had silver service for thirty. The silver service was not monogrammed, and therefore could be sold. The gold service, in the next crate over, would have to be melted down and smelted before they sold it.
There's no sunshine
There's no you and me
There's no good times
This impossible year
