.:XX:. Darling, asphyxiation perhaps?
Ha.
[Private to Self]
Let us reminisce? It is that time of the year again when my quill scratches so strangely against the parchment, as the geese fly back, cackling above-- and just beneath the leaden scaffolds, rolling heavily. Pregnant, even. I would say, with drops of crystals. (Pollution, also.)
Somebody resurrected me, melodramatically enough. I was thinking, perhaps a set of golf or two? Now, now. The purpose was to remind myself how incessantly amusing I can be sometimes. (If only to myself. but shall they not shed their tears also?)
Decadence is starting to eat away at my brain, I can feel. See, even. The fragmentary bits of imagination? Or has his madness rubbed off on me as well. My, how long since we last met? (I whisper: Shhh, I can still feel your silkiness beneath.) What shame, just one time!
But yes, I dreamt of flying machines. And swarthy people acting all aristocratic-- funny, that. Pierre Narziss. I said to him, in my dream: Flee, or I shall devour thou. But then I noticed his bruised lips, and felt like retching. He was a Muggle, too. (I do wonder why I keep on dreaming of all this filth--)
Anyway, where is my pipe? And the hat?
[/Private to Self]
[Private to Ciarán]
The 'ha' above? Why, yes. Do you not find it amusing-- the whole notion of memorial submissions? I feel like being naughty. You in? Of course, we will have to retain our anonymity-- if only for the sake of your line's well-being and your shiny reputation.
Montague
[/Private to Ciarán]
The monosyllabically aggressive? Let us say-- a literary exercise, merely that, in light of the forthcoming commemorative Cause. And sharpen the quills, I would say, for a blunt one makes for a blunt work.
[Private to Self]
Let us reminisce? It is that time of the year again when my quill scratches so strangely against the parchment, as the geese fly back, cackling above-- and just beneath the leaden scaffolds, rolling heavily. Pregnant, even. I would say, with drops of crystals. (Pollution, also.)
Somebody resurrected me, melodramatically enough. I was thinking, perhaps a set of golf or two? Now, now. The purpose was to remind myself how incessantly amusing I can be sometimes. (If only to myself. but shall they not shed their tears also?)
Decadence is starting to eat away at my brain, I can feel. See, even. The fragmentary bits of imagination? Or has his madness rubbed off on me as well. My, how long since we last met? (I whisper: Shhh, I can still feel your silkiness beneath.) What shame, just one time!
But yes, I dreamt of flying machines. And swarthy people acting all aristocratic-- funny, that. Pierre Narziss. I said to him, in my dream: Flee, or I shall devour thou. But then I noticed his bruised lips, and felt like retching. He was a Muggle, too. (I do wonder why I keep on dreaming of all this filth--)
Anyway, where is my pipe? And the hat?
[/Private to Self]
[Private to Ciarán]
The 'ha' above? Why, yes. Do you not find it amusing-- the whole notion of memorial submissions? I feel like being naughty. You in? Of course, we will have to retain our anonymity-- if only for the sake of your line's well-being and your shiny reputation.
Montague
[/Private to Ciarán]
The monosyllabically aggressive? Let us say-- a literary exercise, merely that, in light of the forthcoming commemorative Cause. And sharpen the quills, I would say, for a blunt one makes for a blunt work.