(no subject)
Mike manages to get about twenty pages read before the headache hits him like a hammer between his eyes, and he has to put the book down. He sits for a while, there against the tree with the afternoon sun on his face, and he tries to let the light coming through his eyelid distract him, form a red world he can sink into.
We are not studying in order to know what virtue is, but to become good, for otherwise there would be no profit in it.
The words rise out of the red and he laughs a little at them. Just because.
At last he gives up, pushes to his feet and makes his way down the path toward the beach, the world pulsing gently in his good eye. He could go back to the clinic, take something for it, but somehow the idea of going back there makes it all feel worse, and it seems as though every step he takes toward the water eases the pounding behind his eyes. He always gets pulled back here. It's something to do with boundary conditions. Something about living on the edges of everything, which he supposes, more or less, he always has.
Getting old, he thinks as his feet hit the sand with that faint limp, and when he reaches a rocky patch of the beach he lays the book down, toes his boots off and walks down closer to the water, picks up a large, smooth pebble and hurls it into the waves. He doesn't pitch anymore, not in real games, but it's the same movement, and as his hand releases the stone the throbbing eases still more.
Getting old, but that isn't so bad here.
If only he could read more than a few pages at a time.
[ooc: he's a little pensive and wrestling with a headache, but in a decent mood. come say hi, throw a few rocks. the book lying by his boots is The Nicomachean Ethics by Aristotle. all manner of tags are always welcome.]
We are not studying in order to know what virtue is, but to become good, for otherwise there would be no profit in it.
The words rise out of the red and he laughs a little at them. Just because.
At last he gives up, pushes to his feet and makes his way down the path toward the beach, the world pulsing gently in his good eye. He could go back to the clinic, take something for it, but somehow the idea of going back there makes it all feel worse, and it seems as though every step he takes toward the water eases the pounding behind his eyes. He always gets pulled back here. It's something to do with boundary conditions. Something about living on the edges of everything, which he supposes, more or less, he always has.
Getting old, he thinks as his feet hit the sand with that faint limp, and when he reaches a rocky patch of the beach he lays the book down, toes his boots off and walks down closer to the water, picks up a large, smooth pebble and hurls it into the waves. He doesn't pitch anymore, not in real games, but it's the same movement, and as his hand releases the stone the throbbing eases still more.
Getting old, but that isn't so bad here.
If only he could read more than a few pages at a time.
[ooc: he's a little pensive and wrestling with a headache, but in a decent mood. come say hi, throw a few rocks. the book lying by his boots is The Nicomachean Ethics by Aristotle. all manner of tags are always welcome.]