Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.
Evening of Tuesday, 12 June; The Tavern of Hell
It is these pauses that are our undoing. It is then that sedition enters the fortress and our troops rise in insurrection. Once before he had paused, and love with its horrid rout, its shawms, its cymbals, and its heads with gory locks torn from the shoulders had burst in....
I wore this body here once. It was a wet night; I remember how this body stumbled, a knee going down into the dirt. The witch's mouth on mine, tasting of cigarettes. I was grieving for the Night Wind then; I am always grieving for him, it seems. Or myself. It is a fine line.
That grief was for how he had betrayed me, what he had made me feel. This grief... If I did not know better, I would say it has a taste of regret to it. That is a different savour than other sorrows; a bilious feeling, a sick pain under the ribs. (Bodies are so useful for these articulations.) Something that feels regret can feel remorse, and that can lead to reconciliation; and those are things I will never have.
I thought I had known sorrow; but these feelings are - different enough in a way that is... unbearable. I have endured for so long. But not for much longer. I have decided to move matters on apace, faster than I planned. I had thought to wait until Rose was ready for her first blood; the symbolism appealed. But though I think she would reach that in three years, I am impatient now, as I have not been in a long time.
Come, reap.
I pick up my glass and drain it.
[Open]
It is these pauses that are our undoing. It is then that sedition enters the fortress and our troops rise in insurrection. Once before he had paused, and love with its horrid rout, its shawms, its cymbals, and its heads with gory locks torn from the shoulders had burst in....
I wore this body here once. It was a wet night; I remember how this body stumbled, a knee going down into the dirt. The witch's mouth on mine, tasting of cigarettes. I was grieving for the Night Wind then; I am always grieving for him, it seems. Or myself. It is a fine line.
That grief was for how he had betrayed me, what he had made me feel. This grief... If I did not know better, I would say it has a taste of regret to it. That is a different savour than other sorrows; a bilious feeling, a sick pain under the ribs. (Bodies are so useful for these articulations.) Something that feels regret can feel remorse, and that can lead to reconciliation; and those are things I will never have.
I thought I had known sorrow; but these feelings are - different enough in a way that is... unbearable. I have endured for so long. But not for much longer. I have decided to move matters on apace, faster than I planned. I had thought to wait until Rose was ready for her first blood; the symbolism appealed. But though I think she would reach that in three years, I am impatient now, as I have not been in a long time.
Come, reap.
I pick up my glass and drain it.
[Open]