(no subject)
Stephen's hut was not far from the stream that flowed southward from the waterfalls, and ofttimes in the evening, he would sit by the water, observing the local wildlife, or reading until the light grew too dim to discern the words upon the page. Tonight he was reading a book entitled A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by a fellow Dubliner named James Joyce. He found it damnably difficult to make out, however, as much of the plot concerned modern subjects; furthermore, he cared little for the main character, a callow and self-absorbed youth. Nevertheless, he could catch the cadence of Irish language in the prose, and it reminded him of home.
At last he set the book aside, and lit a cigarette - a mixture of tobacco and cannabis, as was his preference these days - and leaned back against a tree. The tropical fireflies were making their first appearance, flashing in unison amidst the trees, and several very large bats (Nyctalus lasiopterus, he thought) were catching their evening meal overhead.
It occurred to him that the past week or so had been his most content upon the island since Death's departure. Perhaps it was the lack of strange occurrences, perhaps it was merely the amount of cannabis he smoked (Mr. Lennox was certainly correct that it lifted the spirits), but his spirits were relatively high these days. Of course, that could change at a moment's notice, but it was best not to dwell upon such things. For now, he was relatively serene.
[Posting Stephen outside the clinic for once, so more folks can meet him. Yes, he's mildly stoned, and would be happy to talk to you. Timed for early evening. ST and late tags are delicious.]
At last he set the book aside, and lit a cigarette - a mixture of tobacco and cannabis, as was his preference these days - and leaned back against a tree. The tropical fireflies were making their first appearance, flashing in unison amidst the trees, and several very large bats (Nyctalus lasiopterus, he thought) were catching their evening meal overhead.
It occurred to him that the past week or so had been his most content upon the island since Death's departure. Perhaps it was the lack of strange occurrences, perhaps it was merely the amount of cannabis he smoked (Mr. Lennox was certainly correct that it lifted the spirits), but his spirits were relatively high these days. Of course, that could change at a moment's notice, but it was best not to dwell upon such things. For now, he was relatively serene.
[Posting Stephen outside the clinic for once, so more folks can meet him. Yes, he's mildly stoned, and would be happy to talk to you. Timed for early evening. ST and late tags are delicious.]