Wilhiem's Angry Ramblings, Little Birds, Brittle Bones
“So, a little bird once told me a story.”
“You drop the accent when you tell stories?”
“I drop the accent when I need to, and often, an accent marks a man when a man would rather remain unmarked. Will y’listen or complain?”
“I like complaining.”
“I know. We both do. We are ev’n more alike now, and it’s kind of frightening.”
“The little bird…”
“The little bird, yes.”
"So, a little bird told me a story about a man that thought he was too old, too tired, and too confused to continue being old, tired, and confused, and so he-"
"This story already sounds awful. What kind of bard tells awful stories."
"A dead one!"
"Little birds are easy to snap in half."
Talking to myself has never been this entertaining.
We are off to Outland tonight, and I am not entirely sure how to feel. I'm sure I'll feel it when the Naaru-saturated crystals hit my nostrils and infest my bloodstream, and the network vomits into itself when trying to purge that, and then some more.
Or maybe that won't happen at all.
I've come to the conclusion that I do not, really, know what to expect when I kick my feet off the bed and realize that I've slept far past due and stepped into a whole pile of new paperwork, angry letters, and more morons shouting over the comm than I could count.
And then I realized that I
was still dreaming.
And then I turned around (of course, she was already gone) and put my hand where the bedsheets were wrinkled and the mattress very slightly dent, slightly, because that woman barely even holds any weight to her. It wasn't warm, it's been empty a while. There were a few stray white strands of thin white hair.
My dreaming was confirmed, and I drew my knees to my chin, one of my hands still over that dented spot and I think I was lying like that for at least an hour.
I don't really sleep in, I just like to savor those moments.
I feel like an idiot, and it's great.
Makes me wish most things were that simple. Like my self-control, or the things that go on at the back of my mind. I gave up on keeping a clear inventory, as with any mind, that's impossible. My blood would sooner coagulate and stall in my veins like fresh mud. That's what happened to very large pools of blood that I had to shovel - shovel - sometimes. Hours can past beside the chained table, unknown, like losing hours and hours with a lover.
When we grow old we start to lose the grasp on the concept of time.
My hand, it-
it still itches every time I touch my neck.
I need to stop touching my neck.
It won't happen again.
I still remember Anne, I didn't want to, I-
The freckles are not helping.
[It seems that the pen was broken here, and, from the spilled ink, a small sketch was formed and folded.]
“You drop the accent when you tell stories?”
“I drop the accent when I need to, and often, an accent marks a man when a man would rather remain unmarked. Will y’listen or complain?”
“I like complaining.”
“I know. We both do. We are ev’n more alike now, and it’s kind of frightening.”
“The little bird…”
“The little bird, yes.”
"So, a little bird told me a story about a man that thought he was too old, too tired, and too confused to continue being old, tired, and confused, and so he-"
"This story already sounds awful. What kind of bard tells awful stories."
"A dead one!"
"Little birds are easy to snap in half."
Talking to myself has never been this entertaining.
We are off to Outland tonight, and I am not entirely sure how to feel. I'm sure I'll feel it when the Naaru-saturated crystals hit my nostrils and infest my bloodstream, and the network vomits into itself when trying to purge that, and then some more.
Or maybe that won't happen at all.
I've come to the conclusion that I do not, really, know what to expect when I kick my feet off the bed and realize that I've slept far past due and stepped into a whole pile of new paperwork, angry letters, and more morons shouting over the comm than I could count.
And then I realized that I
was still dreaming.
And then I turned around (of course, she was already gone) and put my hand where the bedsheets were wrinkled and the mattress very slightly dent, slightly, because that woman barely even holds any weight to her. It wasn't warm, it's been empty a while. There were a few stray white strands of thin white hair.
My dreaming was confirmed, and I drew my knees to my chin, one of my hands still over that dented spot and I think I was lying like that for at least an hour.
I don't really sleep in, I just like to savor those moments.
I feel like an idiot, and it's great.
Makes me wish most things were that simple. Like my self-control, or the things that go on at the back of my mind. I gave up on keeping a clear inventory, as with any mind, that's impossible. My blood would sooner coagulate and stall in my veins like fresh mud. That's what happened to very large pools of blood that I had to shovel - shovel - sometimes. Hours can past beside the chained table, unknown, like losing hours and hours with a lover.
When we grow old we start to lose the grasp on the concept of time.
My hand, it-
it still itches every time I touch my neck.
I need to stop touching my neck.
It won't happen again.
I still remember Anne, I didn't want to, I-
The freckles are not helping.
[It seems that the pen was broken here, and, from the spilled ink, a small sketch was formed and folded.]