(no subject)
I'm not exactly sure what to report as of now. The time here seems to have blended into a pleasant blur of afternoons out and nights in, punctuated with... with things...
Sending back and forth a black hair ribbon with the "Defender of my Honour" -- dear Narcissa. That was an awful interesting experience. I swear, the only way I learned to communicate with that woman was through pretty little trinkets and poetic words that aren't even mine.
...and Antonin... the "Custodian of my Virtue"...
...things are... Je ne sais pas. Je ne sais pas.
I'm not sure if I should be drinking more or drinking less.
Do not like that house-elf though. Puck, I think it's name is. It has precisely three eyelashes. And just the way it's suddenly THERE... no. Do not like it.
Feelings seem so odd right now. Not even just the feelings, but the whole atmosphere-- ...no. No, it's just feelings. Just mine.
I find myself returning to the classic poems, the ones everyone knows but knows for a reason. I feel like I'm trying to find the truth in them.
Part Three: Love
XLVI
HE fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,
Prepares your brittle substance
For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
Then nearer, then so slow
Your breath has time to straighten,
Your brain to bubble cool,--
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul.
Emily Dickinson.
Sending back and forth a black hair ribbon with the "Defender of my Honour" -- dear Narcissa. That was an awful interesting experience. I swear, the only way I learned to communicate with that woman was through pretty little trinkets and poetic words that aren't even mine.
...and Antonin... the "Custodian of my Virtue"...
...things are... Je ne sais pas. Je ne sais pas.
I'm not sure if I should be drinking more or drinking less.
Do not like that house-elf though. Puck, I think it's name is. It has precisely three eyelashes. And just the way it's suddenly THERE... no. Do not like it.
Feelings seem so odd right now. Not even just the feelings, but the whole atmosphere-- ...no. No, it's just feelings. Just mine.
I find myself returning to the classic poems, the ones everyone knows but knows for a reason. I feel like I'm trying to find the truth in them.
Part Three: Love
XLVI
HE fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,
Prepares your brittle substance
For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
Then nearer, then so slow
Your breath has time to straighten,
Your brain to bubble cool,--
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul.
Emily Dickinson.