(no subject)
he sat there confused for a moment, before quickly rising.
"You've finally come to collect" he said with the strength of a middle aged man but the slight crack of a scolded child.
"You all are more or less the same" the collector said, "Ever knowing, all feeling, mostly instinctual but I just assume thats not your fault"
The sentance was filled with the normal jargon he had remembered from years back, the cryptic words he used dangled in the air much like the freshly lit cigerette that lay in the ash tray.
Most of the time it rolled through the mind rarley hitting any jagged edges of interest, but the last bit struck a chord.
"Not my fault?" he thought. The statement rang loud in the mostly wordless conversation that the collector was creating with his eyes. It was almost comforting to the man in front of the chair, to know that the collector had a some trickle of pity with placing the blame on something, or someone else.
"Times change, rules change, ideas flucuate...but the vessel never changes, the sails never retreat, the ocean grows more black, deeper and darker while the white sail simply floats in the wind, never thinking of what is beneath it. Yes, yes I have come to collect...it is time."
The collector removed his jacket and reached into his pocket only to pull out a small, leather bound book with 2 words etched in gold on the cover. The man could bareley read it but while his eyes adjusted to the dimness laid out by the collectors placement beyond the lamp, he could somberly read, "Bad ideas". What was in store, he thought in his mind, what was happening.
"Oh you'll see my friend, your night has just begun" the collector answered with a knowing grin that only grandfathers give, but this man was no grandfather...he didn't even have a father. His only knowledge, desire, his only family, pain, his only god suffering. He began to hum while the others entered.
"You've finally come to collect" he said with the strength of a middle aged man but the slight crack of a scolded child.
"You all are more or less the same" the collector said, "Ever knowing, all feeling, mostly instinctual but I just assume thats not your fault"
The sentance was filled with the normal jargon he had remembered from years back, the cryptic words he used dangled in the air much like the freshly lit cigerette that lay in the ash tray.
Most of the time it rolled through the mind rarley hitting any jagged edges of interest, but the last bit struck a chord.
"Not my fault?" he thought. The statement rang loud in the mostly wordless conversation that the collector was creating with his eyes. It was almost comforting to the man in front of the chair, to know that the collector had a some trickle of pity with placing the blame on something, or someone else.
"Times change, rules change, ideas flucuate...but the vessel never changes, the sails never retreat, the ocean grows more black, deeper and darker while the white sail simply floats in the wind, never thinking of what is beneath it. Yes, yes I have come to collect...it is time."
The collector removed his jacket and reached into his pocket only to pull out a small, leather bound book with 2 words etched in gold on the cover. The man could bareley read it but while his eyes adjusted to the dimness laid out by the collectors placement beyond the lamp, he could somberly read, "Bad ideas". What was in store, he thought in his mind, what was happening.
"Oh you'll see my friend, your night has just begun" the collector answered with a knowing grin that only grandfathers give, but this man was no grandfather...he didn't even have a father. His only knowledge, desire, his only family, pain, his only god suffering. He began to hum while the others entered.