(no subject)
The writing itself is uncharacteristically messy and the text itself somehow manages to change every time it's read, but Doul does get a letter off to the Brucolac.
It was one of two things that might have brought this on, or any number of other things, but it is good and right to think that there might and must be a pattern to all. Either it was the music that I had heard, and that is very likely - so easy to make my heart race and fill my head, or it was a letter I sent and another I received.
Wise men know that she is like the finest sweet - delicate, strange, and indescribable - a rare scent that is enjoyed and then lost, leaving one that has known it both poorer and better for it. But, a truly perceptive man knows that she is the strong, sure, tiger's paw that offers the taste. Still, the wildcat is dead and her son is the second prodigy in our family. Did I ever tell you what our crest means? How we came to be men instead of meat? It's not too long ago that the noble house of Doul was nameless flesh on the hoof, but a miracle came forth, lived, reproduced, and we were made sentient. The pelican and diving falcon to the sides will now be crowned with a lotus. It grows from his navel, roots deep into his guts and nourished from his own internal rivers and silt.
Two days ride out of Dead Bullock Soak, the vibration slides down, smooth as oil and burns as sweet as gin or djinn but unlike those and the murky waters, this was a peeling open, and it may be trite to say an orange, but it's unfurling in the round.
Chimerical, amphisbaena, with the two heads, and the ass was cruel, but you can't blame it. They're just children.
Humming, hungry all through my back teeth, and I swallow, ringing like a perfect bell, a clarion call through my blood, and I...
There was a heron, silhouetted on the bank, and I ...
It was Croalday and I went into the souk, but they didn't call it Croalday there, but I still went into the market. I went to buy more paper, but I was distracted by strange fruit that moved, slowly, regularly, articulated, and clear so that you can see/feel the heartbeat through the chitin.
I remember how the dust motes rose and winked around the gas lamp and her mouth tasted of grape jelly. It was early morning, and while that time could have been unreal in its simple, quiet way, it was perfect and so gentle. Now, as much as it hurts, I don't want to forget it. I don't want to forget anything. No more blurry, double-vision memories.
In the end, her breath was hot and filled my head with roses and the charnel house. I sang such a song for her.
It was one of two things that might have brought this on, or any number of other things, but it is good and right to think that there might and must be a pattern to all. Either it was the music that I had heard, and that is very likely - so easy to make my heart race and fill my head, or it was a letter I sent and another I received.
Wise men know that she is like the finest sweet - delicate, strange, and indescribable - a rare scent that is enjoyed and then lost, leaving one that has known it both poorer and better for it. But, a truly perceptive man knows that she is the strong, sure, tiger's paw that offers the taste. Still, the wildcat is dead and her son is the second prodigy in our family. Did I ever tell you what our crest means? How we came to be men instead of meat? It's not too long ago that the noble house of Doul was nameless flesh on the hoof, but a miracle came forth, lived, reproduced, and we were made sentient. The pelican and diving falcon to the sides will now be crowned with a lotus. It grows from his navel, roots deep into his guts and nourished from his own internal rivers and silt.
Two days ride out of Dead Bullock Soak, the vibration slides down, smooth as oil and burns as sweet as gin or djinn but unlike those and the murky waters, this was a peeling open, and it may be trite to say an orange, but it's unfurling in the round.
Chimerical, amphisbaena, with the two heads, and the ass was cruel, but you can't blame it. They're just children.
Humming, hungry all through my back teeth, and I swallow, ringing like a perfect bell, a clarion call through my blood, and I...
There was a heron, silhouetted on the bank, and I ...
It was Croalday and I went into the souk, but they didn't call it Croalday there, but I still went into the market. I went to buy more paper, but I was distracted by strange fruit that moved, slowly, regularly, articulated, and clear so that you can see/feel the heartbeat through the chitin.
I remember how the dust motes rose and winked around the gas lamp and her mouth tasted of grape jelly. It was early morning, and while that time could have been unreal in its simple, quiet way, it was perfect and so gentle. Now, as much as it hurts, I don't want to forget it. I don't want to forget anything. No more blurry, double-vision memories.
In the end, her breath was hot and filled my head with roses and the charnel house. I sang such a song for her.