[There are horrors in this bedroom that should not see the light of day. A few of them, unaccustomed to Papyrus's sheer force of personality, tumble and bounce away from the pile of socks and scrap paper behind the door when he bursts in: a shirt, some wadded-up grocery bags, a mysterious single onion, a couple of last week's crosswords, a trombone.
But Sans himself is immobile. It's hard to tell, because it's hard to tell where his collection of garbage ends and his bones begin. Heck, he and the bed are as covered in torn-up notebook pages and assorted junk as the discoloured dirty laundry on the floor is.
On closer inspection, though, one and only one of the scraps of paper in here is taped to the side of his contentedly snoring skull. It reads: "ok".
Seems like he's too lazy to have this particular argument right now. Come back later? No, probably not.]
no subject
But Sans himself is immobile. It's hard to tell, because it's hard to tell where his collection of garbage ends and his bones begin. Heck, he and the bed are as covered in torn-up notebook pages and assorted junk as the discoloured dirty laundry on the floor is.
On closer inspection, though, one and only one of the scraps of paper in here is taped to the side of his contentedly snoring skull. It reads: "ok".
Seems like he's too lazy to have this particular argument right now. Come back later? No, probably not.]