cont.

[eschatos_logic]

Cold hard knots unraveled beneath his breast, sighing in grey steam rivulets from parted lips. Tactile sensations were a keener blade here, beyond the crushingly close walls of home. Each brush of snow-flecked lashes lay fine, stinging lines across his numb cheeks. Wool rasped against his palms as they began to tremble

Comments

[cooluncleryan]

Good stuff.

My only issue is how complicated the writing is. I feel like a simpler prose would better suit the story.

[isadore]

Well the original three paragraphs are meant to be in immitation of the lyricism and natural bent of Native American storytelling.

Then I read a lot of Doctor Faustus and things went a different way utterly. You're probably right; I should return to the earlier narrative if just to keep it continuous.

[dannison]

It hurts my mind.

You should do it like Leary. With columns. God. I can't believe I just told somebody to write like Leary.

This outside life, this plunging unfamiliar map that had on every other day of his existence been counted ordinary, was both an irresistible compulsion and the utter bewilderment of the old, soporific reality to which he clung.

Was it...was it now? What is an "outside life?" I'm damned confused. And if it existed for long enough to be counted ordinary, how could it conflict with the dopey reality of his older self? Perhaps I'm being needlessly dense. *punches self in mouth* nate. stay away from this. you worthless hack.

[dannison]

And I like the Yeats, as well. Made me think of this one, by Lindsay:

The Leaden-Eyed

Let not young souls be smothered out before
They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.
It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,
Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.
Not that they starve; but starve so dreamlessly,
Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap,
Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve,
Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.

I suppose the two pieces aren't really related...only in that they both deal with death or dieing. Oh...how very emo.

[eschatos_logic]

Also, I adore that poem. Adore.

[eschatos_logic]

Ahh, the boy has already left his house. I shall friend you, and then you shall be able to read the previous entry, which, though still not the complete piece to date, makes slightly more sense and gives these two paragraphs a context.

In short, the boy has gone outside into the night-time, alone, against his better senses. Eventually he's going to be eating the moon, but I'm having trouble with that part.