Private to Me, technicallysilhouetteatroxMay 29 2007, 00:22:23 UTC
Oh, you wonderful one: I love you more each moment you snarl about and frighten the family.
You'd be surprised if I told you what trouble I am having with this. Your skin tones are so well-suited to white, I am tempted to use that as a base color. However, the draining of death leads me to add a few splashes of excitement to your sharp three-piece suit. A tiny triangle of purple (despite how often I steer away from that particular shade), perhaps, in your breast pocket, will bring out the regal hue in your eyes and cheeks. Not just purple, though--plum.
Might we do it tonight? Someone must die, and it might as well be her. I've just stitched together a lovely pair of dragonskin gloves for the occasion.
But--well, as to the letter, of course I already know its contents.
Private to Second Self- againmorsus_et_morsMay 29 2007, 12:19:46 UTC
Here you are supposed to (am I repeating myself now? degrading, so lowly-- my supply of words is running dry) imagine me grinning contentedly. [Private to First Self] How strange, when with you, I can even accept the notion of 'love'. My latest escapade at your journal- did it frighten you? Do I even understand it? Oh I understand it much better than any of the sheeple could ever imagine me to understand. or themselves.[/Private to First Self] Just because, as always.
Plum! We must drink some plum wine before our going out tonight- oh and that means, I agree. Tonight it is then. We head off in an indefinite direction and--:
Ah! No, no no. NO. Ciarán, why haven't you thought about it? We must first stalk that Porter woman, and I already want to kill her. Do we even know her address? Who could we find it out from? (This distresses me too much. Make it stop, frater.)
Private to Second Self- againsilhouetteatroxMay 30 2007, 01:11:44 UTC
But you will never run dry, Montague. Although, if the impossible happens [as it consistently does], you can, as here, draw from my rivers of crimson. For after all: you only borrow from yourSelf. White-winged herons sing golden truths in the crisp morning fog, and even this they cannot deny.
Frighten me? No. But I can feel an indigo sadness that makes me liquid at the edges (like--oh, repeating--the watercolors running in pale streaks from a wet paper canvas). I must remind himself that I am here, and that this is who I am now. Why are you making me so full of grief?
They gave me a list of detailed contacts for all the Prophet reporters after my little entry about needing a journalist. Apparently, fame really does open every door. I have everything we need, including the hours she is not available (which, of course, are the hours she is most likely to be in her home).
Private to Second Self- againmorsus_et_morsMay 30 2007, 05:05:02 UTC
So mote it be, then.
Because sad you are even more like {inexplicable scribblings}- but I like it. Even in grief, they will never understand us, I want to say, realizing, at the same time, how pathetic that may be. Let's leave it aside, and do our job nicely. Without emotions, without proclamations. Something mechanistic, purely thoughtless, like an empty vault that goes up to nowhere.
We will perform an Evanesco on her, after we are done. I want to leave not a trace, as if she never existed. Erasing the very memory of her. What if everyone disappeared like that one day? (What I wonder is, where is the other end of Evanesco, and where do all the vanished objects go?!)
Suspense of the unknown is the greatest of phobias, is it not?
Good then. We shall set off tonight. Meet me at Arcadia's gates when the moon is forty seven degrees to the West.
Private to my husbandmrs_morsusMay 29 2007, 00:53:16 UTC
Darling, I shall be in Knightsbridge this evening. I shall share your deepest wishes with the House-Elves. If I remember.
No, you shall not be forgiven - at least not without payment in pain.
Do remember to report your trysts to the Prophet, dearest. They have so little of substance to say when you don't. I far prefer their tripe about you than the unpleasant alternatives.
Private to Millicentmorsus_et_morsMay 29 2007, 12:27:16 UTC
Ah, leaving me alone, as you always do. How very wifely. This could be a reason enough to leave you in ignominy of a divorced woman. Thus:
Be there when I come back home, and have the trout ready. I want you to wear a white lily dress and pin up your hair, so I could contemplate your swan-neck. Also, get the fuck out of my bedroom with the paper-hangers you fuck when I'm not home- and do it by the time I come back.
Ah, so much love and adoration from you. I must pay it back, so I shall bring something to your tastes tonight with me. Perhaps a head of certain someone. (Are you smiling now?)
Private to Montagueterry_schtiwlMay 31 2007, 05:18:50 UTC
Montague Morsus is dead. He died in Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it. The poet was well known personally or by reputation, in all this country. He had readers in England and in several states of Continental Europe. But he had few or no friends. The regrets for his death will be suggested principally by the consideration that in him literary art lost one of its most brilliant, but erratic stars
( ... )
Comments 8
You'd be surprised if I told you what trouble I am having with this. Your skin tones are so well-suited to white, I am tempted to use that as a base color. However, the draining of death leads me to add a few splashes of excitement to your sharp three-piece suit. A tiny triangle of purple (despite how often I steer away from that particular shade), perhaps, in your breast pocket, will bring out the regal hue in your eyes and cheeks. Not just purple, though--plum.
Might we do it tonight? Someone must die, and it might as well be her. I've just stitched together a lovely pair of dragonskin gloves for the occasion.
But--well, as to the letter, of course I already know its contents.
Reply
Plum! We must drink some plum wine before our going out tonight- oh and that means, I agree. Tonight it is then. We head off in an indefinite direction and--:
Ah! No, no no. NO. Ciarán, why haven't you thought about it? We must first stalk that Porter woman, and I already want to kill her. Do we even know her address? Who could we find it out from? (This distresses me too much. Make it stop, frater.)
Reply
Frighten me? No. But I can feel an indigo sadness that makes me liquid at the edges (like--oh, repeating--the watercolors running in pale streaks from a wet paper canvas). I must remind himself that I am here, and that this is who I am now. Why are you making me so full of grief?
They gave me a list of detailed contacts for all the Prophet reporters after my little entry about needing a journalist. Apparently, fame really does open every door. I have everything we need, including the hours she is not available (which, of course, are the hours she is most likely to be in her home).
Reply
Because sad you are even more like {inexplicable scribblings}- but I like it. Even in grief, they will never understand us, I want to say, realizing, at the same time, how pathetic that may be. Let's leave it aside, and do our job nicely. Without emotions, without proclamations. Something mechanistic, purely thoughtless, like an empty vault that goes up to nowhere.
We will perform an Evanesco on her, after we are done. I want to leave not a trace, as if she never existed. Erasing the very memory of her. What if everyone disappeared like that one day? (What I wonder is, where is the other end of Evanesco, and where do all the vanished objects go?!)
Suspense of the unknown is the greatest of phobias, is it not?
Good then. We shall set off tonight. Meet me at Arcadia's gates when the moon is forty seven degrees to the West.
Reply
I shall be in Knightsbridge this evening. I shall share your deepest wishes with the House-Elves. If I remember.
No, you shall not be forgiven - at least not without payment in pain.
Do remember to report your trysts to the Prophet, dearest. They have so little of substance to say when you don't. I far prefer their tripe about you than the unpleasant alternatives.
Your little girl
Reply
Be there when I come back home, and have the trout ready. I want you to wear a white lily dress and pin up your hair, so I could contemplate your swan-neck. Also, get the fuck out of my bedroom with the paper-hangers you fuck when I'm not home- and do it by the time I come back.
Ah, so much love and adoration from you. I must pay it back, so I shall bring something to your tastes tonight with me. Perhaps a head of certain someone. (Are you smiling now?)
Montague
Reply
Reply
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