0:12
An excess of silence, which is debauchery unto itself, and lascivious. The pleasure is mine. Lasciviousness amongst the lascivious, if the better part of the Networked Notebooks are to be believed. Hooked together. Network. Fish net. Yes, I see it, amid those same lank coils of seaweed hair, and we shall drown each other, slick as seals.
Silence, mine, and stillness.
No, another lie: I have been down to the water again, standing at the seashore. There, waves who shall never rest, and strangers by the water, on sand or stones. The water sucking at my--his, these--boots. Making a sound like the drain: suck. An old thought, and strange.
And we all like to say to one another we are a stranger in a strange land. How strange now, summer burnt dead dried into oncoming winter. From brassy heat to marble cold, so slow a descent, the slide to the grave, the death of the year. Familiar customs in a strange land. And the Celebration of the Great Thanksgiving (form Y) days ago. Gracious lies--and that is familiar. Nevermind the invasion which passed me by. Blessed escape. Solitude. In perpetuo.
Passed All Hallows, passed All Saints, passed All Others.
Still his feet and the ends of his legs worn on me. Basta! What was his cry? I want puce gloves.
Puce. Quince. Vomitous and snotgreen. His words. Let them be stricken. He is not here and nor is his cry. My decision was made that night. My presence placed here. So be it. Shall be set to rights. By my pen, by my mind. There you feel free. I. Am. Set. Loose.
And all of life lies before me, so sweet, so lay the sea before me. (How much power has the sea? How much power have I? I will not drown if I do not go in the sea. So. Sand. And stones. They have been made and may not be unmade now or ever)
I took up three stones and brought them back with me. They lie in the window, lost. I have taken the stones as the City took me, and here we are, in this room together. I flew. I have decided: I will set my pen to write again. It is my vocation and employment.
So, if we are on an island, where does the water come from?
No, not the sea, thalatta, thalatta, winedark, &c. The piped water.
All the great cities have a river. This is a rule. The Seine, the Thames, the Volga, the Yangtze, the Mississippi--do I dare?--the Liffey.
Where is the City's River?
What is your story?
[ooc: We're going to give him one more go.]
Silence, mine, and stillness.
No, another lie: I have been down to the water again, standing at the seashore. There, waves who shall never rest, and strangers by the water, on sand or stones. The water sucking at my--his, these--boots. Making a sound like the drain: suck. An old thought, and strange.
And we all like to say to one another we are a stranger in a strange land. How strange now, summer burnt dead dried into oncoming winter. From brassy heat to marble cold, so slow a descent, the slide to the grave, the death of the year. Familiar customs in a strange land. And the Celebration of the Great Thanksgiving (form Y) days ago. Gracious lies--and that is familiar. Nevermind the invasion which passed me by. Blessed escape. Solitude. In perpetuo.
Passed All Hallows, passed All Saints, passed All Others.
Still his feet and the ends of his legs worn on me. Basta! What was his cry? I want puce gloves.
Puce. Quince. Vomitous and snotgreen. His words. Let them be stricken. He is not here and nor is his cry. My decision was made that night. My presence placed here. So be it. Shall be set to rights. By my pen, by my mind. There you feel free. I. Am. Set. Loose.
And all of life lies before me, so sweet, so lay the sea before me. (How much power has the sea? How much power have I? I will not drown if I do not go in the sea. So. Sand. And stones. They have been made and may not be unmade now or ever)
I took up three stones and brought them back with me. They lie in the window, lost. I have taken the stones as the City took me, and here we are, in this room together. I flew. I have decided: I will set my pen to write again. It is my vocation and employment.
So, if we are on an island, where does the water come from?
No, not the sea, thalatta, thalatta, winedark, &c. The piped water.
All the great cities have a river. This is a rule. The Seine, the Thames, the Volga, the Yangtze, the Mississippi--do I dare?--the Liffey.
Where is the City's River?
What is your story?
[ooc: We're going to give him one more go.]