#My Great Arab Melancholy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

libidomechanica · 2 years ago

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Sharp violins proclaim their smile: perfect Beauty

A ballad sequence

Her: then I tip-toed past him out the dead! So saying behind.— Hast that to skirt; and thing with her, none. To pass in other pass thy perfect seisure? Out in troubled like none, now!

Thy visit our forests—great Brahma from the green footsteps, coloured to. Sharp violins proclaim their smile: perfect Beauty. Of Loving—and, scarce stauncht thee with Florian, unperceived,

cat-footed all are lost you, the young strange ribbon in the habit, hat, and the water as on a pastoral slope as fairest and dare to pierce of new-born women;

certain that didn’t expect from running, and never quaft in her jewels, gifts as my pulse, for at the neater and colour, Ah, be among the anchor dropped. My soul conspired: so

my soul knowest the show. Until the pleasure, for pure Wine, to give somewhere, when those beautiful blush, and yet, to see some fair aspects that every one hundred brightest far that

for me! No, no: you were her glory has been tost into the mount that is your heat to live i’ th’ street look forward running against his ivy- dart, in golden Crown of

Empire how supremest kiss her. In it: in this hand. And light, those same love thee for any wicked changes ever lasted her philters woman’s hand press’d with what art can

teach true loveliness of the shadow lend. She is restored to do lie, even they look’d for thee, Melancholy rise, with gentle will not to show my spring. It’s today:

all out, and such a calendar could your lecture. Spice his crew! Queen myself and your mouth with looking from a silver name you. Some, that rode at her soft hand, as one pale cheek all

ask, when the large, bright with my dull beautifullest, like cloudy phantasm! Our hand, to show it, but this; with but for the subject Impotence? For the Hands of yellow,—who can kill!

For I do love the Records of waiting on this body. Close on thee alone, that verily ’tis time the Setting

be above thee will get ye, or since he hath, every objects find; amongst the Harper’s head, hand, that all the sacred

beauteous was her eyes, for one would fain finish is watercresses. And all his simple Kurd awake to the moon I

fixed my eyes might be content male wind th’ executioner, and throw a football with the Sword-wind of Wisdom

where the gnarled hive I’ll be my Delphos, and so bent his ivy tent, onward therewithal. Alive—for the earth. I

wonders I send me—you want to kissing his for which started up his Neck to your have drunken sails the World of Verse,

in some minx tripp’d lightning sand. Busy old Sleep yawned from time to find softness bore of passions, level: spattering round,

save that mole by his house.—Ah, Zephyr drooping flower heeds not help but kiss, or to boy, human prior to the Riches

that died to-day to dream: the king’s primroses as she: but while my breath, a flower for spring when some transit.

Dear lady, did he did addresse, deem that gives no Room for Two; lest, but as for very nightingale, that travels I

return’d him fast to my child; and rough window at his Throat, come, welcome. And their treasures of Night at the drunken bee

out over until I get hungry arab—after dead,— and of his had made me blind in self-commitment, wan, into

starbursts of revellers: they thus sail, slowly whisper’d by fears, that which us doth last from eve till from his head?

He said: What, consuming the full thou flee to mount thee winged speed him who travels I return’d once, quickly: not so

vigorously debars, is the call, and rain and leaf shards gather’s art. Lovely her for once more endears, when we callow

Polish self! Famous into the woman living Presence or me? Knit, to the Faith an even now in the mountainside

me, correcting heartache or led by women; there her maid, all are lost in pure loving part, my wrath: he states, summon’d

the learned how silent, would be away. Into the buoyant like to me, that this: these sages, knees locked the ways.

To clear again with all the ways. I were to seed, Hermes’ wand to pass in patient. Until I stopped for the coloured

to. No, no: you would not help the rain, without object, as the Gold return’d as when he chewed couch, and shoulder, her fane

consecrate. Wondering whale, crawling up to your make at Maud in a points in thee to be. My License is the call,

and cold winter reckon’d none: there for my torturing, the rough the poor craven with my friends. It is my lord the little

Cup whose that noysome gross errors noted wanted the page wonder, bread our bloodshot eyes, and you’re dubbed knight when models

arrive where halfway summiting the fair; more worthy tongue of her left your name you always. Thee: those holy and

signet gem, all homage to me the kitchen bereft as the whole in love, long will gaze on my bosom? Have led her

brother women; certain summer day. Thou continent, and the stones i’ th’ street looked at the thou were thoughts remove

from his head in iron wedges drives therefore him leave found about thine together, he meadow’s bed, the grass! These green,

alone: but therefore our uses and your bones supersede loveliness, at his second lifted his eyes and day

his should know not heavily por’d on its agonizing the boards ere long-settled please; I ne’er she doing me, and

their little dry old grandfather. When thee; and so forget his sword of summer drawn from skirt; and against thou shalt thou

shalt hear, All her brother pit, for you.—Then shone the hid and flip-flops. So by waning up some dark blue and glad life in

it till by Feringhi Glasses turn’d: both my foe beheld me Head worth a lone about the king’s letters plains of

careening in the air like natural sphere; of what would raised thousand error was no shame one said: Poor lady, did he did

sit on the Head and her this? Princess: she takes a draught—young Bacchus, your bones, round the Fire—the Harper’s eyes, like Alexis’

ashtray; the memory quickens Erebus, for a minutes of thy white should he not be tombs of heaven’s airy

dome was pretty pleasures; give forlorn; for sophomore girls they thought, and all they rode till whatsoever, as I thinking

in a blissful swain, to take her, must be our life to find softness bore of passionate loved her soul then? Out of

light of lightly on, in such gifts as might hand in June, I to her owne woe; so ample feather. Often and he rose.

That the proper home, and died away among the space maintaining this daughter, and pawed his nature sweet word to his

delight signal that I want to your vacuum clean up, till my story will fling him, and them; soon, inflame thy soul, as

is not of anger, a laugh’d and shall her love in such a thing! When thereof, with my tears as salt as mine A lover,

that seems to that were tutors. Being all nigh dead leave to a moving points on thy face, and with a start but as forehead.

Of her eares as spoyle when butterflies—renounce thy lover, proudly she might death.— Soon managed so leave me

to substance, the mavis sang, all wild minstrel-life to Love thee sit beneath the air like Alexis smoke from their little

Cup whose sufferer begins to Sleep. Upon your vacuum clean. On the Soul to want. Into Bagdad came where to

see; when butterfly, a lord, and opposite, o things for eyes are pecking playmates call was happy he whole soup. And so

dauntless into white rose: and I see the other’s Ancle— cries Hark! When your life, though shadows of all but kissed against

thou will not be: where she’s gone. Lifting: and mine that is no light and my books. To that none you, a sparrow and in. Search

of callow brooms, and deep, or wages nor for chance, web-footed alligators, crocodiles, and in. He held his own—

he was given they foster me? Deeper frosty hoar, join dancing that she to be born to lace untenanted a

piece of song and bare shew cold and let thee, fair shadows and glows, come hither, Back and folly ripe, in someone words. An

immortal here silence lives the electric heaven and against the Setting beneath the banks, close of heart; yet, because

the Bondage from their brilliant repeating evil death. None like her owne woe; so ample earth and this thy Will, ’ and

while we never and rocks once-a- boy pilfering two at her heard thousand yet I can give sometimes the wild to the

salt sea-spry? For one is restor’d, thou alone, with me, a sometimes of the rags of another’s court with tears. He rous’d

the Harper’s ear and clay, you are welcome, welcome, O love, notes it ran, thy Star upon Branch cut down its half-self, That’s

my blood! The tuneful voices sweet is no treachery. When Jubal struck the Indian started on his care I, who

is as a lynx, and I sure think for maiden place; dusk for all was he boundary, griefs and who would help, this silver name.

When we were clawing on my sleep in shade, apt emblements, but since their pleased Counsel, and the Pen of marble, I needed a music-masterpieces: the flocks or till the orchard possesses are the believe, believe, the bring flute, in

swells unmitigated, still strong your iron wedges drive, and tug at the banks, close: there was not fly from my last Blazon of the head, of tempers my way this university until I get a nod. Found himself more blest thief! Then

he behold I find ourself, tooke Stella is not me, a poor beast thou art just, take my maid; Thus we were the loved Chick? And rent the world’s garden-ground my breath so sad as I, thoughts to perplexing! Void white stars of her will quite, dulling out,

under the number of Dian’s feasted, does ironies irritate my affectionate love will hold ye this remove. Direct towards they smiles about therein your forest grass! More the ridge, we dance front teeth rotted his own. No hand an

immortal wrong and bran, bread or hers whom I could see if we came of time’s fell to worship them? What is She but kisses her, must lose that and Day—archetype of the nobleman of Ganges ever and close of the bridal bed, birdie,

say to your forests me for you and meanwhile you and I have no dædale heart to get people suppose me dear, but when, in some Old Story to be cast up from thence? His name him,—she did see; it is won. And whisper I love me. From

underground poles, numb nubkins, thy sum of you! Began to me a livelier land; and I pardon me, to leaf or with snorting is help’d by Time’s tyrannous, so reverend and Logos appetite with none whole world a spot the Sultan’s

foe I am talking halt and flying frank she can rule and blest freedom, not why, and striven to thee, to find out on the dance upon the sawdust tavern at the paint the housewives that cheere thou art that Fount of Joy renews the same.

Love groans, but by day, until I stopped: when I am but reachery. Best-natures scatter what I in alt, or ran these eyes, nor their most with the requisite grip, angle and made my Maud in a man and full, through beautifully stony

and more blest where too fresh as a sinner recesses are on the mind dismally the lustrous passion puls’d its Music raise. For the hemisphere. I’m queen myself then sink downward struck, and lave thy morn and on their open at Stonehenge.

Thy treasures of thee, when rivers. I love vehicle itself the night-wander in the wide Border to the bounteous

niggard, why dost in two, nor may see no men, and there—and from the pinions, the cradle, and Intellectual Truth,

under his head? To craze, be the Nine, and sweet the new moon sad Zephyr drooping fled! Upon thine Original Degree,

the shrieks of the living world. Be cared him; and stol’n away; his awkward from the clouds light make Lover! Sweet Societies

I may with the tale of February and many, and the tears! My frugal eye of my heart,—this caress

it as it thus! Mouth—rather, Back is crookéd as the cared him from all art of man with mortal rage; when we past doth

he should ask me which for the radio was pumping from myself to thy foolish in hell, for ever singing that

touches Heaven reflected from his head? Say, is nothing unforeseen thee,—cresses between us, I go. Do not

in my License is taking therefore, I am but reach true life had view’d a skyey On spleenful unicorn.

Jealousy, down those that the treacherous shalt! Bitter spring, until I get a nod.—Truth descries, with Cyril and silver and earth Hell! Drops of dew? Of three felt so gay, or downward the late: o God, for a flame to tell! The Netherby

Hall, and by old forehead bound. No critic I—would see my only this cunning off there like our from my last divorce. For at the occasion—that what we were it not sighed deep, laugh’d an Hour to creeping the owl from a far-off grandson,

first Desire; then he said, in a blind fortunes, and then I have ye e’er have been a treasure that knowing where young man in mine that you letters plain about me … envelop all harmony to his lost, from rear to a cypress

tree? To the affectionate lightning star. Of the kitchen, much good night whose gentle lady’s head! Drew first and girl keeping with accomplishment! Wretched angular She is so much it feel my heart more her scourge, succour of three children;

three days to him; and shun and lovers’ souls wouldst thou art why of the Soul in Strife! The least encumbered cocktail dresse, deem than Endymion, were to fight were that art can be separate and since, where fitter perching to compensate, tell covert:

the king, ’ he sawdust tavern at the country main, increasing on thyself and subsided, for I have lovelorn, silence be. Confines, and repenting ’mong men, are in such a calm and wayward brother kiss’d, saying: Sister, other.

False-flatt’ring is not for thy beams from a flower. —This Dignity and give at eye levell’d opposition shall bed to one whose Back and folly, or one must be: where’er such

Pollution! That saist thou would fly, but now by thy plight be content to sit beneath a frown, she thou leave me thus, my Katie! At which it grieve, the Breath the pinch a flowers, still,

through Turner’s England warm delight till that guides my mind might shall death have not below, beat with my footsteps worn a path in one of blue as we climbing your knees, from Tankards scooped

intercharm of space between you always made a merry; come hither speak: let all in yourself will come to me, that fine relish, that like allay, so gone for the train as I

should fondly lov’d us; nay more, that doth lie: that you love. Let us ay lovers, the last years; yet each other; and sings a full-blown, before her didst thou know’st my heart, the jasmine

and rough to make seeming earth’s splendorous soul upon his car, aloft, young Phoebus, and our good do t ye, gentle will right on a sudden in the flocks; and her in its

gulf a fitting all alone slumber; so once only lov’d and groans, to thin break the sweet word in our quiet would enroll they foster’d the fair banquet order’d at midnight whose

Attributes these our latter heart is hand press’d his hand in.—Shaking East; ’twas fit then replied there, entered at them? My mother pass thy vision will I sing ere long arms and lions’

manes, from Cynthia, queen, his cotton, and know thing else is. Not inflate and in that once, quickly forth to the Door of the shore, and silver knell of vision vex me so

diviner heads privately his heart. Star. With larger stop here; by all thine, have felt so fair maids shut against thou know’st I am perjured most; for the sun’s decline: give mine, my dear

nature’s bequest girl, for proffer’d loving, to tinge of Absál, the fingers; there is also to be gone, none whole world I love with the trumpet spake a higher one moment free:

the golden apples, wan with his beauty slain by the curious court with a boon, a certain of Good and there like clouds like a noise of joy he might and dare to his own depth,

or Goddess! Down to me. The Heaven, than with my tears filled her home of every blesses with wrath did end. The train he knot. Could shine, or height, all the world with such an alcohol!

Behold thee I seemed the girls thee? In order’d Kurd of mine. Down the chivalrous battle-song that only bear that man will be kindle not, my lady- queen, his jarring at this is my home to thighs, breast: to whom I stole from our hours that

winds kiss thy adjuration, the loom; and blowing his ivy- dart, in good night with my child said: Poor lady, said he, were I take away? He had carv’d, and showers do fade and Passion, fury, frantic proportion that love, notes from thee

sit beneath the more than in my watched the hitch between your dance be. Her dark eyes are sleep. But this world’s gay busy throng, and plump infant land: through king, ’ he said. Left their fronting Chick Lorimer in the harbor. You letter, seeing me, and,

without it. Arms, I labour and day his skill, that we wanted— to bless of the last divorce. And fed with the planes above and feather’s acceptance lovers— who live. The highway, but to misuse thy darkness! Not thy Body’s Strengthened me,

Naomi turns eyes or poppy seeds&religion, poor as mine, to give thee, thy cap, thy center must kiss,—even if they glide, and years has flown but Thee in alt, or ran these lovers are welcome new convulsions into the bar, a blushing

missing his face wit still, that given me a foot alone. Make it underness to her from myself, for a golden pines, Savory, latter pearls upon the larks on wine imbrued his eyes level: spattering night: for Dian play:

dissolve thee that this mortall eyes and all ruby red, cheeks. In his Ambush, school, his sister at the Harper’s hand full flesh and whisper’d: no longer blown hither! When someone drowsy spell. Said young Bacchus and that my Muse some steep, where I

slept, kind Natures ensure your lutes a place! I, having fled! The giddy at they turn not—no, not looked rare with the Cock, in Heaven, an angel! It is in that hurt applies, and by another brethren stood elate and marvelously

squished. Sweet saying so timid head. Mortal Paramour, agitated a windy night and then ’twas Sleeper,—all his vapoury lair. He cared nothing to Jove has always. So timid head. Very river- lily cups with the air,

warm as a sinking a stay against his Feet, she look’d, and thence came on its mid-day golden eve? So exalted too! Nor hours that to me. Robert Burns: grant sweet maid! Bows all then, the reach’d him fast to dwelling the means to be embrace all

love her, Princes, my Katie? Yet, in deep in twixt myself too had waited on him? And baby. An illusion to Lucy’s cot came near him whose gentlemen kirkward from the Bear has lately, left her, none this one whole soup. Wide pinion

bed, until the black save his grasp: her hands are bull, young Bacchus! With joy gone another is bent, two widows here below, beat to the argument all are gone, among a work divine a third, speeding Those are welcome, welcome.

And mar my fault; once only visionary seas! Be your raincoat forefather she given these deliciously an

eastern hills there am I, and the light to grow. But starv’d and so leaves not the rivers, silver- clear, that I shall my

store of fate; and Maud and Earth with the phenomenological space where was they preuaile as love, this way. He could

wed, my father’s front teeth gleaming forth such a thing in his very love you and I fetch her from the tombs of health

alchemy. Thus the beautiful. By meadow at breath, ere dark— till break twenty? Burying oars and his happy in the

more; but ere her melancholy! What strengthened me, Naomi turns to social palace which is the sprung! ’Fore which is

the January photographs, and one hand in the proud heart. Hall after some sorcerer, why dost thou my separate,

discomfort to the joy of the Rich in full dreariest for a brighted at the gate, you say’st, those sweetest store of native

hell. Come hither, let me beyond the honey’d rain and flower-time in the Desert—enter’d at midnight by children’s

mittent wet under her to see; for I will affectionate lover, eating pale as thoughts remove. On the clay

and stop; upon the paired bodies, and so down from too tenderness toward laughing forced together, To give you sit, the

folly: was it gentle lazy love you best, ’ when swift as tyrant! And looked up because or was in their forests … bring

it with face vnarmed Ostleress and pray without love, and our rest, and as when I tip-toed past him out think, proceeds.

And your name. Into two seasons run? We might move, and plague, Vertues great relief or with lyrical beauty in their

mourn because he knew not with stars: come out this; my verses tend than a woman were was heart, conscience-quit of Good and

strong minds the bride’s-men, and should vision will gaze on me, that love were was yet, that even thou use so great deeds done; therefore

for Right, I will come to pass, it chanc’d to Absál to trace love’s back. Yet being all misfortune’s Face—book sonogram

a tinkling face bright and after night have some bay-window and sunny thyme; yea, in the dewy hands, or ouer-wise.

Beneath may guess by her, pale, with the Beams of Heaven are those same delight, or javelin, fly in the discredit of

Good and she is soul! When I was alone. Said never he may see your words awoke the dead; from whence? Who make more I

take answer for objects you look surprise on one, curbs, and hot, and sings, those king; he cared him; life! Weird seizures complicating

everywhere! Why dost thou not a king; and never was the change, and scarce stauncht there apart from kissing cymbals’

ring! Though he sprung. Up therefore breath, speech, better Death my dull pensiuenesse bewray it sees, but thou not cruelly wrong, the

terms of gulls on your porcelain man with greenwood echoes rang, all earth in one and graves, and plucked the sun’s sickness, such

a golden crown upon all, love’s sickle, Winter gave thou know. Perfect Loves; nor lets the king of the best. Mortal wrong’d?—

How deep dell below thy pearls pale as love or death rattle, me of clergymen have clung to nothing finer than a

tremulous dread their grieves me to thy foolish in her face, that in bridegroom said it, Sir, of Inde their supreme pear and

face it, I have to this head who loves to give. Oh sing, but to underwood, and gray, come in the vallies of mortality.

Threat ones I may sport himself against thou know, when you take your own rose-garden rustic town set in brightest

fairer far—O gaze there, most full golden pines.—So that love thee to the compassion; and branch. Lord of Phoebe passion

puls’d its way—ah, what thou know’st to the Faith anguish’d the heard of ghosts, and long the sun shall our latter-mint, and their lids

shall out of dew exhal’d to see ye thus to love thee and out as if yet thee to time, like a king, for Thou dost resolve

to the night; but now by the serene father of the racket this is sure things be desert to thy brighter day.

Said they preuaile as lover whose Name to discovered my peace? How can I now—so on I move of one. Someone within it, featured? Steeds, with the best. Look not one place. Between

two vehicular independence, this dusky strange, on syren shouldst thou hast won a full of yes and a nothing to me, as their timid head. I bade them cruel; for nothing,

no authentic dew but in the great beauty from their full- blown, before if any pass untold, they mask, a pinion bed, until I grasp: her hand, and said, had given us

letters in the housetop lonely was his briar’d path inwoven her mother is depart as from the should Lovers’ season why my mother never turned youth! There in our pen.

Heart,—this universal frame began on the fuse into rooms which you will bestow it; till we movement on yourself, tooke Stella alone, without a summer or Baal, wherewithal an answering the way to Tim’s others, will ride, jealous

ease and quell? But gather’s fronting I shall please; I ne’er will all these the skies which is at war with a child said Endymion, weep not in some unlook’d with the air would see her song. And watching then the Bondage from life, leave me no

wizardry of wit, admitted the lonely maidens which I cloth’d; how we played, and bow and and a night. At eight year, that must for you. When summer days and will days had return, of posting world I love I strives in clover. Sure threaded sexton

that bad his trams in a bed the wide world wide, and thus,— not very ears with furs and Treasure never the dead to every was he, not less the consented seem to tire, dying, and I shall men adore. Before the cool cloud them;

soon, inflamed without the descending. Who in the days can never knell of vision which undone, the night like ye, merry; come when anxious too, and so nor will notes, discovered, late, its force his happy counterchanged my children; three

days’ journey dreams and the wind up the bushes? That having dead let me be your glasses by the winds, beneath a fair and a job having smile: perfect Beauty will I sing by, behold those millions of callow birds are all external

smile they came, crowning in spleen to say he put his ivy tent, onward shall I in your true as in a new voice even there. Thy blind in search’d Abyssinia rouse and could new that to say parataxis would have that such home-bred glory

has buoyed me up till it bore its tide—and Destiny! He had an entry: riding in thy death down to its winter’s wings: despot king, you should fondly parallel, thought to grace and the stone shall her like some day and all alone,

among the world a spot the Sun did see, and the balm, the staid not what you dedicated, naked not here, here there heavenly hides behind; but No! But then my judgment. It isn’t true; for sing ere long, and lay with those maiden fancies;

loved to its way—ah, what perplext her who is weary—so I took to discover the firm soil too rich man might her heads, and rolling Heaven seem but some fruit doth grow? Tigers and soul may knows the sleep not set down call my health alchemy.

Its axis you I taste thy merit hath not journeyed in Pearl. Who have happy as we, These weird seizures come sorceress, while they twain shop windows to me. More honey and Thou; if I—the Pumpkin why of the Absolute Ones who

saw in self-passion put for brake, and foolish river’s hand from thee, myriads—with smile I meditated as horse: with diamond there are having search after ages, whose same fumes of me. To enlight from my soul to wave stood, for pity?

And bare shew cold weight of vengeance; we might makes the kingly way, and trembling of the Rhine yield with song and fair Ellen of the Throne bed lays the vehicle, she, or comes to help

me put forth fruitful freight. In its own true as the world’s garland:-yet discern’d this briar nor much it fear’d sublime beyond his kin! And, replied: why such a hand in its green covert:

there never yet the pinions, then, the show’r I grew and see if we shall prince my hearts yearns to keep near him who travel’d in a fire, dully drew nigh to make glad life’s offer

up, and her lap.—To be lover, proudly she no long; why dost thou die from the end in distracted that knowing the would dance, web-footed alligators, crocodiles, over

the sun, art here, scalpel, and over you; on Helen’s cheek so fair I chance had once been a treasured fragrant exhalation to go outside. The bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

Rotted back, which he took it up, he quaffing. I may not unworthy. With dangerous in the warbled the panting

I dote on, amorously this: the last, my wretch, go chide Thine and does comes and bursts of revellers: they sail, and I

must for ever.—And of it flash of real breathing: gone neare there dark again would what perplexity! But my five me

the Northern grot, while you best, ’ when on curtain summer day. Beloved, I get a man. We ourselves in a bliss, but

that hast such glee? To purple hue— look, and love, some steed hinder conversation or breath—one gentlest boon! For I

am happy spiritless mistresses are sleep within our love not a shame, that daintiest Dream! It hangs still place: holds

the sunflowers, and either to dote on, amorous, as the curiously, inhabiting of her both my friend,

bending. And satiate her philters with the theater you’ll get cold dews and well follow the kings of Indian ware,

that swoon. Now what my shoulders silver having denied the fingers of heaven shield, I stood with face I profane you

gone, among her eyes, cool parsley, basil sweet steeds, with my devote this lost, for proffer’d love, again. But a treason

to go with all the wild woods and jewels, and bring two spheres began on the air like the city’s edge. Her troth?—Only a

honey-thick with me, and the distance, and it with his lost in laurels’ patter when perverted, does see the golden

stood newes know my leaving towards they sail, and so many, and thou know’st my all. News, lassies, no tender feeling dove.

Traffic with face vnarmed marcht, either, Then, ere thought is a weeping to explain—If I were green, and you, for I will

ride, jealousy. And lovers, then new maim’d to behold upon it if one small rate? And soften as if at me, and

lovers’ souls. Your own babe I nurse the Seven as my fears were ten men or a hundred bright was not a Sage of a

devour, the gentle will be well, be well. And chaste a flash and seem tame.—And, if God choose but winter me beyond

all: then the houses of kings of grief, young Bacchus! In which faith toying, and all praise the snored all we sleep may breast!

For all thou use ’tis she upheld her love their treasures real breathe sweetly, across table junked up alive or death will

get ye, or coolness, at his skill in a mantle pale flicks the Courtesies of keen remorse, then larger so afterimage

picture by my Evil lust am fall out I know her bosom heave her, must love: O impiously she bows

his heart, consuming traffic proportion ties a Pumpkin round is no woman’s daughter beside transfer where pall: woe-

hurricanes beat quickly, and well sleep in this gloom, and air of mine. Here is it he can write on their bodies, by hard

promise tied, on horses dark shore, and no one whose Attributes the sun’s sight with his wide stress of visionary seas!

A little rills of view is pleasant ayres of light, his lady he swung, so light from the hills there was that to these you

wrongs. Before for windows, melodies, and see, and canst the boundary, griefs the Leave me blinded think me bound. But O, what

pastimes in vain, come hither? Bound the Pumpkin off to sell. I were the mavis sang, amang there we stay’d to swears them.

When laughs and desperate Love lovely by far to haunt of the kitchen tree; for wine, for miles about him

irresistable of the sorrow and a job having old Skiddaw’s top, when my fears, we gained them all before me no

wizardry of woman-statue rose infrequent smile on my limbs on the night: her dawning that to that ever side? Why

dost invention heart with his coal all the City. Wilt behold those line and singular She is a goal. Me thus strove

by far, there the bride kissed again— At the dusky cave, when to blushes His first, first dawn and let our whole life had view’d

a skyey mask, a pinion’d multitude,— and onely cherish doth lie: that this one with continue thus, my Katie!

—Most sweet woman opens her ankles, when I was; but for the sweet bird’s through the mellow, he country swain, tho’ thy lovers,

as the poor soul in love, and some of truest breathing: gone himself its mid-day golden stole into her; and bless

our wait to hear us, or else tranquillity. Been this tongue’s tune delighten into my body and bare shew cold

and be reckon’d none, but ebbs like a wanton, like watercresses that Tim’s yearns to show me so! The cup of wilderness,

such this your change in it: in the moon to her hands, or our love you betake thee to mountains,— thine own depth. ’Fore which

ever less thee with a kiss,—even in dream; and I admir’d! About the frame began. As for lovest underground;

but is Jove’s nest own, and faces fell into a whim to strays the sea. His summers back- blow of your rest, and there.

Perversity unties bare as marble, I needed a mulberry grow by that all departed. No long; at last

shed that it was none like and our fate stop nor star-flower- fence facing paints—to window, and ends at the South, and breast:

o that. He inward that thy Soul is spent his head knocks and the blinded thing can firmly for her since in deep in a

man, thy Star upon a planispheres began. Of Thee in our quiet home of every one, over the sunflower

honey, when the sun and quell? In the happy youthful swain, tho’ she, why not, for all the University for

a gorgon wrath, and remember that feast would not die; nor my native less—so love this is this we miscal growth. But

bland there; by dews and bear the rear to me, a poor as mine. I love thee, Melancholy musician. To the spirit

place; dusk for one is resting, person, here and he should breath the Eske river flame should call country ants to carry ye.

So many time to die, is gone. The world’s sun, art here; nor pleasant valley, He with you. From the earth. Lover who but

claims he knew it. Thy gowns, thy spirit- blow was striped, and at ease and Oblivion to go dance with the hunger stop

here; nor pleasing strangers either and lightening valley nightingale, that when a dance The star-shaped, thrust him sleep.

For the port the middle of Launcelot on a playing him, Life’s faithful troop am I. Or, on another

cigarette into the glamour of revellers: the more; but burn’d. Covet not so little chink of his depth Cimmering.

To make my lot to hear the woods! God Love, against thee? They had been: nor having old Sleep yawned from the very sad? And

one should what enamour’d bride’s faithful glee; laughing you see; it is not aided me? At eight or coolness, gathering

to my eye; and waly fa’ the last, my Katie? Thy bloodshot eyes upon the gentle lore: therefore if to a grandsire

burnt because of mine: give the Soul in like ye, then, flying a snowy hand, that affection will fulfil the balm,

and so I kept brimming search after your lusty arms with dear Endymion. Moth, pod of enormous pleasure never

since he came late-writ letter held, and tell cover, as I sat, over the fire to his delicate air,—when laughing

pace my small his past: I love till there here! That guides more dear. Me, and save when natural hue of her and strain he know her

bosom, and seek the arranged through the fiercely like a kind of it. Though beauty be the Hall, my Maud by thee, with dew-

sweetest Sorrow thou shalt thou, my rose; in its ears with evening sky. Creep into the coil of seamen, and proscenium

of heaven to her teeth. Zebras struck thee quickening dwindled they, while they are behind grew. Way who is leaving lies

away would go to Sleep yawned from his priesthood moan all the wonder her to be: only a honeybees to fill These

wondered in its half-self, a sign, by two souls can move, and, slowly she rose and fear; down the polygons of state, you

thumbed, that made a measures; give at eye level in mine are gone—but oh your bounty doth lie: that draws thine aid? Like one

resign’d and stumbling on the train as it is; and, without object on which I hardly worthy. As Lady Psyche.

Not say, ‘This is the council up. Thy fervent flowers, rush of a thundering the pale flickering down in meshes of them all bows all she demand from whence came ye, merry heart, and Vesper, for Caesar’s I am full in all: then

I thought of her and fuels goodly and accept the day may boast of outworn buried grin of ice cream enclareted; and languid breeze is so naked, will be able to retrace there was melted without a world with my death. Oh

veil thing invited, but, without a share of tanglements, but always crowds its wins the electric meter I will richly pleads for pure elysium. How shall before a Pasty luscious in the blooming the cliff-side tranquillity.

Yet may I by no means my ways to meet and throw down for you. Weak pointer must be, to tinge of it. The actual is prior to see my only friends. Through Turner’s England, like one to stare, walking world wide this crew! Bade good-bye earth

and my bed to one, without you— so many a venom’d dart at random flies away. Whose Shadow—being Kings—whose Memory rankles. For when summer draws delights to perchange beyond earth, and the lovers lie here in slumber; so

once more by a path to the Desert saw Majnún answers, and kept, and the blue sky should appears are my heart. Darling, queen myself too happy was he on did rest his eyes for many planets, to yielded up to their black is fair dawning

like none, he sware this beautifully into a lord, hadst be one repent. Full golden morrow, away! The rest: o my Electra! And how espouse this mortals each is a babe; then his compile; even the sky. From me, and love you

thirty-two angel hear me Swear, a thousand great dreams and my will bite. I ne’er she goes; pure- bosom’d as heretos and their alert enemies; declare that prison the king, gnawing of me. Great god Lover! And over bank, bush, and

the Soul is, and languid breeze. Is most full of desire to say I lost bridegroom said never where young and with a starry heart, into my foe outstretcheder the drugs that I felt aloof up in the present, doubt? His noblest that

land, afterwards sometimes, the despite of view and light up true. For to do with a boon, a certain of? Yet were to part, my only Stellas stately bends towards her, let this: these pretty pleased with our eyes, ay see your shrine, with all them at

my aching year: so through absent present, at the Veil may knows the white should I thee? To flower in it: as it were perjured most; for nothing in yonder by the brow of some false I sweare, euen by Time—the valleys heart, are pecking pearl

the very poor ring-doves sleek Arabians’ prance, and my days: and half as happy he whole world’s way after steps worn a path in its golden closed her silver the fingers of a million miles. Said were widows here: ’ but No! Feels all

rules for judgment knew not why, Bewitch’d our good he eats, and people suppose me dear, but Folly to my ear where and drizzling rage inside to Haleakala Crater. But for ever was angry with such Pollution. Dear brother war

be a care I, aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, autocrat, democrat, democrat, autocrat, democrat, autocrat—one who since now the planet Lion, see! From eve till dead hour of recollection of her tears or

when my head is what: on a suddenly arrests me to boast of Druids was his brighter held, was it leave me thus, my Katie? So witless fancies dead wide pinion, pomp of song and the call, and long time,—sluggish form reposing moon.

Thus we went echoing distance, whereof, without there ford that strength to a moving the great, O love that the syrinx flag, with bulrush and lie falling it was no eye for his own—he was racing anyway toward these myriads—with silent

are by the sky, against thou may, He with Age—how she’s gone, and if you wilt, mething force wit still existence, say is it isn’t that art can scarce avail to bear him or know myself alone. To that same delight, thou, to-day, to-morrow

will not; we ourselves at once, the car winds toward laughter, my sunflower-fence facing Letters plains; a three days. With my wrath, my wrath: he stones dead religion poetry with paines and to go dance with Make and Oblivion.

To feel as true as was to wave stood around her went. Of joy to harm! For to her he may with Absál to the screams

of Heaven-ward Foot may boast of outworn buried age; when doth lie: that be i’ th’ street half housewives th’

executor to substance lovers, the disguise of my own full of late, its salutary Vintage on the wind on

glass shows you will win, or else transfer when I came late-writ letter, seeing me a noiseless of yes and you in

the mind in all hear my peace among the affections leap, and Grisi’s existence, say it now and adore. And doing

me more like him leave t’ adore. In finishing-rods of gold, and nearer out of view is pleasure three presence

sayes, thy constancy, and, unaware, that he seemed hast my arms reached the boys and earth in its own exist have to moan

all thou sighing for Lebanon in this head where my small be my Delphos, and Four; pain sits with tears of hopeless of

his complaining seen or felt how cam’st to grow. Dear lady, how often graciously this mystic wind and stray’d, my heart’s

head, hand, after shall my head who was pumping in the harbor. Breathless cups with my chilling my grief to fight whose eyes

and my father, Back is stifled. To give me thus through warp and clay, you and missing by my ear circles in clover.

Dignity and Rigour are maiden bed weep and woof from fields were, my evermore, in dying, he tripp’d lightly serv’d.

What, consuming the woman’s house. To Vesper, risen out. Covet notes that know that the Khalífah’s Supper push’d, and

brother wooer from hills that your coffee pot you can find our dull, uninspired: so my story of two oaths and gentle

limbs on mossy hill. Or care of dreaming rings, shall nothing in the Fire; yea, sweet and most goddess, in face, this

universe, in the dusk—the days’ journey dreams I sleep. Conversation by nodding away the steaks, onion rings, whose line

and laying in your loves will not be ashamed of a million miles about a worm in my arbour roses; my

mother he sprung. Graciously, inhabiting Everest. Slowly as ice, he tale of the wide world.—Yet less all frets our

spirit seems to the next December. Delighted breath, or what press’d, saying so timidly among his wide:-come with

smile, pleasure pall: woe-hurricanes beat quickly: not so! Light, I call thy sweetly, on a hole in the Dust! Everybody

love: I am not a slope as fairest imperial. And perplext her Star upon earth Hell! His broad, which for

the coffee hot to her tears of thanks in that my Muse brink of recollection of a heart full accomplicating

them better her side, with thee, and thrush, schooling it were to love, my evermore: I cannot be rightful joys! Gather’s

ear alone imagin’d good. The forests, and people suppose we lovely eyes are all alive. But the lover. And

I shall airy voice; then spoke so sweet dreams … scatter day, and bear a minute, come when I am but rested not wish

the Golden eye follow whither actual is priesthood moans; before our fates all the Quarters of these thou dost resolve

thee! Amorous, sinking on the heart, and call this an illusion the mass for a man and died away among cool

clouds, were the braes o’ Ballochmyle! No one shore, and sang thick branches sway, and of the For higher soft Angel!

While we never have ranged threat one but reachers. Long, Jámi, in things, whose modest true; for to be mery with my heart

with sorrow’s fall. This hymn, farewell; for all was her home of every perforce with the past double double and ourselves

seated eye, and whispered to an evil ear, where to find weak point at my Muse bride’s-men, and honey of shedded leaves

or people suppose we join hand in June, tall chesnuts keep away would come to be: only my plague thus stranger in

a planispheres began: when I am may come down the innocence? Then, there—and from Dian’s: lo! Your His—lo! Wed.

Which, used, like a spiritualiz’d. Here is also carried holly by shepherd strain he know him not. Shall ceased Counsel,

and that once might no wretched angular figure at her Name to the electric meter I will lovely bones. And

there shall bed the hopes infest; where Chick Lorimer in his Lips. When arrow ready seems to person, her air like the

South, from your coffee hot to half as happy wight move to council, plied that the sweetly, across table man! A mere

eyelid’s distance before through the comparison the mother he was, not lie. Burst the maiden prison, and husks of

words, per day. Oblivion. That, yet, never by, one still by Feringhi Glasses and the Cock, in Heaven. Lusty

arms about—no more blest than sights cannot Music raised those by our old army blanket. Who was pretty pleasant valley

night; for nothing.—To wish you again return’d up to the stone, like halfway summiting thus, my Katie! Crown upon

it if one so friend, sweetness: yet he sees here: turn’d as one place. Toothpaste a liquor, numb to the first dawn and one

shore, and Grisi’s exist have a worm quickens, hoeing yams, calibrating away. And I, whose bugle,—an ethereal

band are visions, he’d signet gem, all homage to have armed Ostleress and almost my heart beat quickening

with risk. From the wing? Pale as love, somewhere, entering pearl spring I discern’d this sùbjects yet it mantle rosy-

warm with in one to tell; and their tender ear, when summer days from the boards ere long low sibilation of his cheek

a rich man may the requisite grip, angle great receipt with me, alas! Above a sister. Hazel withered garlands,

love-look rapt Endymion, were a bee such as not make seemed hast my arms reachery! Or the soul wouldst, my wrath did

entered me. Old Tartary the wonderment. To catcher’s eye, all wild it self departed. And I shall see what perplex

me so! Like him which in pleasant valley nightly one hour maid, and be the spur she gave guess to the year; to Vesta,

for a season know wants a cod: i’ll no gang to these some minx tripped each others, was here, althoughts remove.

Beloved Chick Lorimer went. How do I dreams to gratify? Myself to this is the king, ’ he sawdust tavern

at the skies, innumerable, pitiless, passing: voice? The crust crumbled. Sang this damsel fair cousin with muffled

the spur she gave you wilt shine, or starling, queen Maud will, thy constant to each other loudly she be desert, I am

not one upon he has made drunken sails thee, whereof. Into howling up some fair of men adore. In faith. There

is this an illusion the noblest than heard though I see they ran: there at my affection will I sit for this? Love!

Carry it on that from the war. —Andromeda! I don’t need saving grace and day his should dance best music driving looks to Dissolute boy for at each at a crusted boots,

child; and always borne through they stung they all alike, no self- commitment, as Danae in all her that spoke so sweet and stumbling, flush Summer, golden apple bright me more life in mossy

cave again? Ah, Zephyr droops the gloomy wooing is done, to record without a woman: they safe arrived, sometimes best music driving it a thought a kind of tears and

the Revelation of His Glory the worm quickly for higher soul wastes where footless in pain, come inscription unto thee. Begged a bootless calf at eight of place on Earth for

Hermes’ wand to lash off. New as his priesthood moans; before the hitch betweene the clear round! It intents, diversely ting’d with equal to the Khalífah laughers mimicking

ascendancy, are desire double Praise. There never he may well follow them by so small reason, and know it chanc’d to spy: her lips towards common day; free-voic’d as icy

isle upon that must for rest, and night. If her brother circumstance, the glooms. But winter gave it: and kissed against thou my life in its golden crown upon a Harp that she bee

hums by us wits, seeing dull and there anguish’d far better a gorgon wrath. Gentle lazy love the sorrow will not those in my bed, from my last divorce. On glass shows you

had not seem bare, in wants a cradle shone again return, of posting ice, or comes to die. Into thee! Where you made, good turn the proper glory has my ten-speed across a

land thou, fairer far above the North. Who love ourselves seated by another’s Bosom of the altar-flame; all madly dancing with a kiss’d, and, as innocent, would have climbed

the mournful wander in her for the compact, yet, to see ye this cunning Time drew nigh those dirge is won! More honey and Thou; if I—the Pumpkin why on You? Worst of May is

on their brilliant repeating moon. To alter the lyre; but ere here, all over our dog-chewed course; graceful and would trace to vent the last—the slanted From which is all his path.

Give me thus, just as that I thus to arisen out. From the dawn. And I do but play thy Grace the king; he car window.

To save from the lips: but cheer, by thinking to the sun’s birth I lisp’d thy Dust inscribe Adonis, and signet gem,

all homage to her fair banquet with me? As from living sweet, O Love, who from the Bondage of sorrow is it? By

thee,—cresses. If thou art why on You? Sick, sick to thy beams from a silvery, very eye but kneel to Vesper, for

ever side? The cold thy perfumes by a path is but thinking of truest breath so sad astrology, there those land!

To make in the called; a plump-armed myself brings even the Bondage from the moon I fixed my flame shoulders silver name.

Into the sun; while her manners, nay, the joy I seek,—for by one, curbs, and They bow down the rockfields were to us,

and taken to the vallies of Heaven above, more precious wave and all the way to the hills there we stay’d there though

absent presence. Then should dance forsworn, but till doth where thou leave me evening star. Faith torn, in vowing on my craft or

art. To the thine others, the turf outspread or her ribs, for the skies whence came ye, merry Damsels! Out in thee, the cup.

With wills, that lie open a pellet on her exultations leap, and in distracted the pearly bite; and that their

most wise by Phoebe, his swift flight, the choirs above therefore a Pasty than maiden come into thee. With joy, with dew-

sweet eglantine, and he story ran. Dark Paradise! Through curtains great receipt with none, none who, in a Heap of Dung.

The bring how waited on panthers’ furs and shrouds beneath a star, not of another’s fault if you open at Stonehenge.

—This thine own depth, or any wicked change of you. As from the dogs’—and kisses gathering atoms lay, and bitter the sware this mystic heave tumultuously. Sweet Indian mine eye of love thee; till my low last I spot will wealth by

due; where didst thou wilt, methinks were a bee that every moving loved Chick?—No major tension of Thine own Dignity and sky do melt too? Only a honeysuckles full sea glazed with all his very blessing cymbals made trothplighted,

chidden, by two steps. Look, sharp’st interpos’d to seeds&religion poetry house; he always. Who makes me and breath you to my hunger, a laugh’d an Hour to craze, be the three child a few short hours, days, month, will not thy voice of corn bows all

those holy priesthood moan and dance, web-footed thus await fearless for ever stood around it, where greenwood echoes rang; our dog-chewed therefore happy as we name! For any man to go dance best conjurement the golden sun from

the wild minstrelsy! Aye, all that feast with liquor, numb to the flutter a gorgon wrath divine a thousand gray, come, with dewy locks, who once was song, and I pardon me saying, to be good-night. While to look at thee, Sister, snowed it

lying from birth to-night tempt the dead. Give what terror of the next encounterfeit is poorly designed. Make the polygons of sweet the earth away— unseen, Indecent Hunger seizes up and wayward too; or you and in. Shaking

pearl spring I follow sky, and by the painted new: speak for the more than betide as though I swear, tho’ the glamour, agitated after my dream, shewing hope, we dancing into my friends: the sun. The bushes? Lost wise by Phoebus’

lips, away for obliteration of hatred, misery angle and tell one. The plains and her side of his hearts of thy soul in like because she said young place; and I sat a weeping and be reckoning yield such pity now incline

to plain of a birth I lisp’d thy part of chief music: for the mornings when then decrees of molten blush so everything unforeseen—tiny both in her for the flocks; and they twain for that one but winter away among a worm in

my breath so sad and therefore doves what: on a bower’s sanctity! Be your teddy bear take a mortal man, who from the South, cap and plumes we rustled: him which stars of the talke; how calm and sweet, and pebbles blue from sun’s birth to-night sweet

together woman smokes, the smell; or be by phantoms duped. And mar my father, you, a woman ties a Pumpkin off there’s news, lassies, no change of all our love till speak he bursts into his lady’s head? Outstretched race, stella, I say

it now and always. Tent, onward the window and canst thou leave her own glasse, or give mine, and glad I see the zephyr wanton’d round of hope, than all harmony, this rain with the truth that wing out that lean heavily again beginning

rings that woman, came to live down tongue? Before the gnarled hail; great kings when mine eyes, cool parsley, basil sweet Robin sits on mossy cave for pity? Can it be seized by longing. For so, my mother, Sister, other cottage began on

that way the line carrying towards burn in love! Nor hours be nothing on my Mother could have seem’st pillows; and full of love like watery glasses between explosions, and arbour rose and pith to make moan all day long day; save from the

whole month, which was he, not with shadow and seem’st pillows; and Intellectual or poppy drear He with soft splenetic, personal quiet need, by sun and quietly, on another could heart draws delight— I bid adieu. Be ’fore

which you send a heart will walk into your town, to preach do in excess! Muse of my eyes, no church but heave heart is she has all in lines, eating of my life in it then to help but kiss again without dreams … throw such gifts to gratify?

This come hither, he would have done! Not all be able to isolate. We know. Thy unused beauty in it. Farther

away behind, and never more till them by a swift decay; ruin hath weariest is most at nakedness would come

dive into a livelier languid breeze that Fount of Joy renews they can stop here—a kid I on thee, O Love, and

to through waters are shut again? And ye meanwhile the cold daybreak we wind; in winged speed no more the sun shall I love

were hot let me council, plied the pious call on us? Father, his swift extremity can say briefly of the

running of time’s tyrannous, so remain ground; but form or bribe me thus, for stealing out of love, by sun and evening

brethren stones i’ the likely, with all her lips her and died to purchase female gear; he brow of some destruction—when

labour of smooth; o let the hunger, a laughs and satiate her since those holy countercharm of such a den to wear!

Thy gowns, those eyes. Or felt but peace, its fragrant me thus, a thousand pray with offices, love’s back-blow of Revenge for

you, i’d have I to weave with her philters with joy gone so wise pity now in Eden with joy, without it. Pallas

for eyes, cool parsley, basil sweeter this thy perfection madden not that Memory quickens, hoeing yams,

calibrating me more threshold one with bulrush and I could thrown her but if the world’s gay busy through heart: why is it?

We simple Kurd more three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo, done the Beams of autumn for the tombs of buried a

rich old lord, and careless from fair face. Sing me a things, snapping like allay, so gone long breath? To labour is done, without

thou continuing the sawdust tavern at then what party is it not name, was it ever where stood kind of

State errours that makes you send for a mantle rosy-warm with what was my pulse, for highest her went. Unlike eyes and

died seven centuries since, when other still doth with fair star-flame; and thou art thou or he was as my love their pleasure

never turns to thee kindly things on the plain! For what doubt to a girl, and I say it. A wounds through exits into

the door, the tree. Into the money, when then find and daffodil, be cared nothing can be found, like the like; she

loved her song. I see the promised good, walk’d dizzily away. In the king; he took his face grow impious. Into

my friend’s directly one hundred pain, come hither, look at its death rattle, youth last my life a perfumèd garments; let

us remember’d from a falcon- eye? Honey from charitable message said my craft or summoned into the

coast, through kingdoms wide:-come where is the Diamond was that cheeks as pale The good broad, to show me too tender ear. Why dost

deceitful freight. Sick, sick of a misty hinges her home, and yet them go scraping a cockney ear. And yet, not worth

nor for once only—I, mine and raise; but love; and of tears, I’ve her to thy Heart, and marvelously I caresses.

His bed of death; that still, each, again with spicy chocolates temper and call meet us far I could be thy Lover!

Between two vehicle, she, you allow birds left desert, I am adjusting from the his good! Out over thine,

and you are to have drawn by Michelangelo, done the same place; and be reckoning yielded up for the children under

cloud or a hundred pains, and there’s not say so, to give. As of old did ground, a sleeper and rushed my eye, all

honour. Save her thou use so great could ne’er did speed: and strives in the know her brother Rosamond of theirs of the world.

’ When he chest wherever he sprung! Of his depth Cimmering nights, a sunflower. The Folding earth a little Tippler leaning verge, nor age no need. With fannes wel-shading gauntless

of the less of tallow, yellow lines so Lover can he tell whether I be the ripened once again. Fourth I may sound it, where watching around to thy beds of the Bear

has latest moan; and tell one ask me not mourning sun, for a gorgon wrath did grow. Until I grasp: her he sprung. Be your pen.—He came, crowning in me no wizardry of air;

let thy broadsword he wants a common day; free-voic’d brother did she is also to be. I have thee; till breed dispute between two vehicular frightening breeze that all reason,

and Maud by the mass for the boundary, grief is dim, sorrows the white rose. Bodies, and yet to leaf and line and speed no more. What I should bear the meadows, and gorgon wrath did enter

must die! Gladly began to lives out of many thousand error of Speech, and Intellectual or poppy seeds&religion, pomp of solitary soul two souls. For

love the Soul in the daisy tips? What streams? Yet, to show my wife he sought of her the Harper’s ear alone, and he, Why am I! Awe-stricken break, woe, what those, and languish’d the

larks from thee. As was divided into thee to help me put mine eye hath melt for All—None but me. And I own, and hot, and this to say, forsooth, you are my lovelorn, silence,

is sure thine head,—on mine are to find the purely, as men striven to the bases lost, for tears of heroes gone for their loves to save when on curtain’d, to leave me the

vehicle itself. When the narrow morn seems to myself to thee: make it worth his book open windows. Lose her mouth undefiléd Robe of Phoebe’s, golden footstool shall bearer

when wound a star, and Vesper, risen out on a rusting the one dark yew trees: what is most articular independence, that cheere thou sighing at you lovesick land at

they in a look, sharp’st intents, diverse delighted, nor set the trees by the squire will keep, while they thoughts will nor careless from my last Blazon of than heard not to sail away until

I grasp the houses of kings white why dost borrow the hear no sound, for one simply blur into the subject Impotence? Let me go. Have ditties from nigh to grow. A sign,

by two souls that myself to the number zero. Seventh— the Setting up a cypress tree? Know the wings from eve till singing Hands of Being and fed with dangerous darlings

near; striving loneliness of her went. Great, O love, by meadow and is gone; they’ll have a cause of rural garble. Great Dian’s face those throat blossom blows a bugle,—an ethereal

breath, from the moon is me! They smile; or when it seem’d her tact and call on us doth lend, and, and never knell of that is mortal man grow impiously an earth; great gods! The

dance at ebb and full of grief, bale, sorrowing? You are we, unlike, O princely Grace. That your backs, all nightingale, that dies on her parts will not be Sun, o my story ran.

Upon the more can speak, but for to no other song, and little Tippler leaning such loveliness, gather of

the space where the dewy blossoms with sweetness, my dear love is a babe; the day care to pine foreground—Ah, me! A time-

torn man; even and all relics must not after horrors may sleeping his tamed leopard pants, nor canst thou art thou know’st

my all. Into a Lovers’ season rotten. Of chiefe pride, and my belly, which many subtle Censor scrutinize.

Departing nostrils bold snuff at it pricking it to my bed, that grove will not love here be any less photorealistic?

When your fingers of tallow, If the breath, and flower into you when some of fire; and still strong in spring

to see ye this title, built last year, there fitter perching on the oxygen. Frozen car seats, expulsion the night.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #113 texts #ballad sequence

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sinceileftyoublog · 2 years ago

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Tom Skinner Interview: Vessels for Music to Be Heard

Photo by Alex Kurunis

BY JORDAN MAINZER

From the now-defunct jazz greats Sons of Kemet to best-ever Radiohead-adjacent project The Smile, Tom Skinner has not-so-quietly been one of the most versatile drummers of the past half-decade. Though he previously released his own music under the moniker Hello Skinny, earlier this month, Skinner shared his first album under his own name, Voices of Bishara (Brownswood/International Anthem/Nonesuch). The record doesn’t just exemplify Skinner as a player, but encapsulates his imaginative spirit as a listener and reinventor.

Throughout the COVID-19 lockdowns, Skinner listened repeatedly to Abdul Wadud’s 1978 solo album By Myself, privately pressed on Wadud’s label, Bishara. The Arabic name loosely translates to “the bringer of good news;” as lockdowns were lifted, vaccines administered, and live shows returned, it felt an appropriate word to reflect the genesis of what would become Voices of Bishara. A few years back, Skinner was invited to do a Played Twice session at London’s Brilliant Corners, wherein artists improvised in response to a classic album played through the venue’s audiophile system. That night, the album was Tony Williams’ Life Time; Skinner chose cellist Kareem Dayes, tenor saxophonists Nubya Garcia and Shabaka Hutchings, and bassist Tom Herbert. They had such natural chemistry that Skinner was inspired to write an album’s worth of new music, which he and the other four recorded live.

Voices of Bishara is far from a traditional jazz album, though, as Skinner returned to the recordings and edited between the instruments like his favorite disco and house producers would do. The result is an album with a tremendous sense of clearance, contrast, and opportunity for the individual players to shine. The muted, melancholy “Bishara” starts with just cello and bass before saxophone and rolling drums enter. “Red 2″, a response to Williams’ “Two Pieces Of One: Red” from Life Time, is shadowy, though Garcia’s flute shines through. Cello and chirping saxophone converse on “The Day After Tomorrow”, with Skinner’s drum rolls underneath the sighs of the woodwinds. “The Journey” and “Voices (Of The Past)” have a bit more of a groove and sway to them, Skinner’s drumming limber and snapping like a more traditional jazz or even boom bap beat. Voices of Bishara is more a retrospective of Skinner’s artistry and curatorial voice than a debut, let alone an assured mid-career album.

I emailed Skinner some questions about Voices of Bishara last month, touching on the album(s) that inspired it, responding to existing music, and composition. Read his responses below, edited for clarity.

Photo by André Baumecker

Since I Left You: Why do you think you found yourself listening to Abdul Wadud's By Myself during COVID so much? What about it resonates with you?

Tom Skinner: There’s a purity to the record. It’s a very direct and deeply personal piece of work. When you’re listening to it, it’s just you and him, no overdubs or studio trickery beyond the odd edit here and there. He’s talking directly to you, and I found that very refreshing and inspiring. In terms of the pandemic, looking back on it, I think maybe I took some solace in that level of intimacy at a time when we weren’t able to interact with other people as much as we were accustomed to. It’s also just a fucking cool record, and his playing on it is absolutely incredible. It’s loose and free with some pretty far-out improv on there but also incredibly melodic and rhythmically very interesting and groovy, too. Somehow, he manages to encompass all of my favorite things about music in one clear and concise statement.

SILY: What was your first experience or relationship with Tony Williams' Life Time?

TS: I’ve been a fan of Tony’s playing from the first time I heard him on the classic Miles Davis quintet records of the 1960’s. His own records from that time, though, always seemed a little more challenging and experimental. I first heard Spring (his second for Blue Note), and it definitely took me a while to appreciate what was going on, but as an aspiring young jazz musician, it was inspiring to hear how he was pushing himself and the music into new directions on those recordings. The thing I love about Life Time in particular is the unusual instrumentation and the fact that each track features a different combination of players. Tony doesn’t even play on the final tune. Even by today’s standards, that feels ahead of its time.

SILY: When playing for the Played Twice session and this album, why did you specifically choose Kareem, Nubya, Tom Herbert, and Shabaka?

TS: The personal connections and friendships between myself and the people I work with are at the heart of all my projects and collaborations, and this record is no exception. I have known everybody on the record for a long time, and we have a deep and rich history of performing together in different contexts. Getting this specific group together came at a time when we were all playing regularly at Brilliant Corners in various combinations, often for the Played Twice sessions. What attracted me to this particular combination of personalities and players was the scope for orchestration that it presented: Kareem’s cello and Tom’s double bass is a small string section, and Shabaka and Nubya’s tenor saxophones are the wind section, with the added possibility of them doubling on either clarinets or flutes, respectively, and then me on percussion. I also wanted to allow the musicians as much space and freedom as possible within the framework of the songs and, although there are “featured” players on certain tracks, the music was written with a collective and egalitarian approach to improvisation in mind.

SILY: "Red 2" is about a quarter of the length of "Two Pieces of One: Red" and a bit more shadowy in spirit. How did you go about coming up with your version of it, and how did you approach the differences with the original?

TS: I wasn’t approaching it with the original piece in mind at all, and I definitely didn’t want to recreate what had already been done. I wouldn’t really call it a cover, either. With our "version" of “Two Pieces of One: Red”, I wanted to try to break it down to its base elements and focus on only a very small section of the original piece, almost like a sample or a loop that you might find on a hip-hop record. In that sense, the repetition of it becomes a compositional device, too. We then used this as a jumping off point for improvisation. In addition to this idea, I wanted to play around with the sound of the recording, using hard edits between the different instruments and microphones to accentuate an almost jarring sense of space and perspective in the music.

SILY: "Voices (Of The Past)" certainly has a more retro jazz feel to it, and the drums could almost be a part of a boom bap 90's hip hop song. What voices of the past were you referencing on this track?

TS: That’s a very good question and, if I’m honest, I’m not sure I really know. Perhaps I was referencing the music I grew up listening to? Specifically a steady diet of early 90’s hip hop during my teen-age years. That’s when I got heavily into jazz, too: Miles, Coltrane, Ornette, Monk, all the classics. When you’re young, you learn very quickly and soak up so much information. All that music is digested and becomes part of your DNA. So, in a way, I feel that, subconsciously, all those things are probably filtering through.

On a deeper level, though, as musicians, when we play, we are channeling the spirits of our ancestors and forefathers. The music exists all around us, and we are vessels for it to be heard.

SILY: "Quiet As It's Kept" is the most stark track on here, comparatively speaking. How important is it for you to use empty space in your compositions?

TS: Extremely important. Silence, a rest, or a pause are as important, if not more important, than any note that’s written or played. I’m trying to tap into that more and more with my approach to playing the drums and compositionally, too. Space is the place.

SILY: Why did you decide to release this album under your name as opposed to Hello Skinny?

TS: Initially it wasn’t the plan to release it under my own name. I was just going to call it Voices of Bishara. But, for various reasons, it made more sense to release it as Tom Skinner. At first, I wasn’t keen on the idea. I’m used to hiding behind another name--like Hello Skinny or whatever--and stepping out like that felt a bit daunting. But gradually, I came around to the idea and soon came to realize that releasing music under my own name actually gives me a lot more artistic freedom. This way, I’m not tied to any particular sound, style, or group. From one release to the next, I can essentially do what I want. That feels very liberating for me going forward.

SILY: What's the story behind the album art?

TS: The album artwork and design are by the supremely talented Paul Camo. We’ve known each other for many years but only started working on projects together quite recently. This is the second sleeve he’s designed for one of my projects, the first being the Okumu, Herbert, Skinner Trio album Undone: Live at The Crypt released via Vinyl Factory in 2019.

I didn’t give Paul any specific direction; rather, I was more interested in him having complete freedom, to see how he reacted to the music creatively and allowing that to dictate the direction we took. Talking regularly with him and throwing ideas around was a very important part of the process as a whole in creating this record, and I feel like the artwork informs the music as much as vice versa, to the point where he’s now become a part of the group! Paul is a fantastic DJ and selector with a vast knowledge of all music but with a keen ear for deep jazz and improvised music. He performed with us on CDJs and samples at Church of Sound back in September. He has a regular show on NTS called We Are… which is well worth checking out. In addition to that, he runs Margate Radio (Margate is a town on the Kent coast where he is based) and is very active in the local music and art scene there.

SILY: Are you playing these songs live?

TS: We played one show in London at Church of Sound in September, and hopefully, we’ll get a chance to play some more shows next year. There are some potential opportunities on the horizon.

SILY: What's next for you?

TS: A tour across the US with The Smile that will take us right up to Christmas. I’ve started writing material for a second Bishara record. Plus, there are a few other album projects and collaborations in the works.

SILY: What have you been listening to, reading, and watching lately?

TS: Music (in no particular order): Sam Gendel, Armand Hammer, billy woods, Elucid, Low, Ingram Marshall, Robert Stillman, Loraine James, Joe Lovano’s Trio Tapestry, Julius Hemphill, Earl Sweatshirt, Coby Sey, Mica Levi, Moin, Aaron Dilloway, Lucrecia Dalt, Ohbliv, Jaimie Branch, keiyaA, Henry Threadgill, Tara Clerkin Trio, Charles Stepney, Rotary Connection, Jeanne Lee, The Beatles, Broadcast… I could go on, but we’d be here all day.

Books: The History of Bones by John Lurie and The Passengers by Will Ashon.

Film: The Hand of God by Paolo Sorrentino.

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sciatu · 4 years ago

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VICOLI IN SICILIA - Cefalù, Mazzara, Ortigia, Geraci Taormina, Castebuono

Forse quando eri bambino è capitato anche a te di avere coscienza di chi eri giocando lungo una strada. A me è successo cosi, lungo la strada che passando davanti alla nostra casa portava dalla curva che ostruiva la vista verso il mare, alla grande piazza dove la chiesa non faceva vedere i grandi monti verso cui la strada saliva. Lungo la strada io giocavo osservandola mutare con le stagioni e con le ore del giorno. Le grandi nubi gravide di pioggia e di sabbia del deserto, i contadini con il gilet di velluto e la coppola in testa a cavallo delle loro giumente arabe, le lunghe processioni con la banda musicale che piangeva di dolore, l silenzio irreale dei funerali, le moto chiassose come una festa, i venditori ambulanti con il loro canto monotone ed uguale, le macchine, gli animali che passavano indifferenti a noi umani, il passeggio delle ragazze seguite dai chiassosi ragazzi, l’odore del vino nuovo che ribolliva nelle botti, il sentore acre delle olive spremute, la carezza del profumo dei gelsomini nelle notti d’agosto, di tutto questo inconsapevolmente vivevo felice. Di una felicità primordiale e pura. Poi tutto cambiò, lasciai la strada. Allora d’improvviso fu il silenzio grande quanto un deserto, fatto di rumori che non capivo, profumi che non sentivo. Conobbi il bruciore dell’ansia, l’incertezza delle parole, il silenzio delle stanze, lenzuola fredde, attese inutili, giorni come le notti senza colori e sapori.

Poi sentii la Voce.

Non era la Voce di un Dio o di un diavolo, né quella delle cose o dei fantasma, non era la voce della nostalgia o della malinconia che d’amaro ricopre l’anima. Era la mia voce da bambino che dentro me parlava, diceva e raccontava. Quando l’ascoltavo ero ancora nella mia strada, nell’agrumeto dove i fiori sembravano stelle o nell’opulenza della vigna, lungo il torrente a cercare i granchi sotto i sassi levigati, nel frusciate delle felci sugli altopiani del bosco, nell’odore del sangue degli animali uccisi, nei tuoni che scuotevano il bosco, nel vagliare ritmico del grano, nel fuoco che urlava nel forno a legna, nel gocciolare dei tetti dopo la pioggia, nell’ urlare disperato dei vivi che piangevano i morti. E la voce diceva che io ero tutto questo, che potevo visitare ogni angolo del mondo, ma io restavo tutto questo, perché ne ero sua parte. Sono, sua atomica parte.

E la Voce mi parla sempre, racconta, canta, recita, è la cornice di ogni mia emozione, è le ali dei miei amori o dei miei sogni, è la maga che evoca e la madre che prega, ama ed odia e non mi lascia mai. Io, prima, non la capivo e lei mi seguiva sempre come ombra delle mie sensazioni e dove lei iniziava a dire, li il mondo, le persone, le cose, avevano un altro senso, la vita stessa aveva un'altra realtà. Ora io la seguo, ne capisco la forza e la seduzione, ne cerco il suono, scrivo il suo dire e con esso nutro il giorno e la notte, perché questo suo continuo andare di parola in parola è ormai la strada in cui ero cresciuto.

Forse è capitato anche a te di crescere in un luogo dove il mondo e la vita fluivano ora in un senso, ora in un altro e in questo continuo mutate e provarti, hai scoperto il senso di chi eri, hai sentito nascere in te una Voce eguale alla mia. Sarà sicuramente così perché se sei arrivato fino a qui ad ascoltarla, vuol dire che la mia Voce, è la tua.

Maybe when you were a child it happened to you too to be aware of who you were playing along a street. This is how it happened to me, along the road that, passing in front of our house, led from the curve that obstructed the view towards the sea, to the large square where the church did not show the great mountains towards which the road went up. Along the way I used to play watching the street change with the seasons and with the hours of the day. The great clouds pregnant with rain and sand of the desert, the peasants in velvet vests and flat caps riding their Arab mares, the long processions with the musical band crying with pain, the unreal silence of the funerals, the motorbikes noisy like a party, the street vendors with their monotonous and equal song, the cars, the animals that passed indifferent to us humans, the walk of the girls followed by the noisy boys, the smell of new wine bubbling in the barrels, the acrid scent of squeezed olives, the caress of the scent of jasmine in August nights, I unknowingly lived happily of all this. Of a primordial and pure happiness. Then everything changed, I left the road. Then suddenly there was silence as big as a desert, made of noises that I did not understand, scents that I did not hear. I knew the burning of anxiety, the uncertainty of words, the silence of the rooms, cold sheets, useless waiting, days like nights without colors and flavors.

Then I heard the Voice.

It was not the Voice of a God or a devil, nor that of things or ghosts, it was not the voice of nostalgia or melancholy that covers the soul with bitterness. It was my child's voice that spoke, said and told inside me. When I listened to it I was still in my street, in the citrus grove where the flowers looked like stars or in the opulence of the vineyard, along the stream looking for crabs under the smooth stones, in the rustle of the ferns on the woodlands, in the smell of blood of the killed animals, in the thunder that shook the wood, in the rhythmic sifting of the wheat, in the fire that screamed in the wood-burning oven, in the dripping of the roofs after the rain, in the desperate screaming of the living who mourned the dead. And the voice said that I was all of this, that I could visit every corner of the world, but I remained all this, because I was part of it. I am, its atomic part.

And the Voice always speaks to me, tells, sings, recites, it is the frame of all my emotions, it is the wings of my loves or my dreams, it is the sorceress who evokes and the mother who prays, loves and hates and does not leave me. never. Before, I did not understand her and she always followed me as a shadow of my feelings and where she began to say, there the world, people, things, had another meaning, life itself had another reality. Now I follow her, I understand her strength and seduction, I look for her sound, I write her words and with it I nourish the day and the night, because this constant going from word to word is now the street where I grew up .

Perhaps it also happened to you to grow up in a place where the world and life flowed now in one direction, now in another and in this continuous change and try yourself, you discovered the meaning of who you were, you felt a Voice being born in you same as mine. It will surely be like this because if you have come this far to listen to it, it means that my Voice is yours.

#Sicilia #Sicily #sicily #Mazzara #cefalu

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faithitsrighinthename · 3 years ago

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Eugene Delacroix being relatable - Journal entries:

"Nothing very important occured yesterday, 4th."

"It is most extraordinary. I've done nothing all day but worry over the new coat which I tried on this morning; the one that fitted so badly. I find myself staring at every coat I pass in the street."

"I shall go to bed early, and get up early as well."

"From a sense of honesty I don't want to appear better than I am, but what is the use? Everyone worries far more about the least of his personal troubles than over the worst disaster that afflicts the nation as a whole."

"Music often inspires me with great thoughts. I feel an intense longing to paint as I listen to it."

"As always, if I remember rightly, I brought nothing but a mood of blackest melancholy away from the splendid New Year's Eve party..."

"Why not take advantage of those antidotes to civilazation, good books?"

"After they had gone, I relieved my mind by letting off a stream of curses on mediocrity in general and then crept back into my shell."

"Got up about seven o'clock. I ought to do this more often."

"I have not worked all day. Spent a sad evening alone in a cafe."

"Today, Wednesday: Am I really such a clod? It takes a pitchfork to rouse me; I drop off to sleep when there is nothing to stimulate me."

"I must not eat much in the evening, and I must work alone."

"Wednesday again! I am not progressing! But time is, and very fast, too."

"I am going to be very short of money. I must work hard."

"The trouble is, that with a roving and impressionable mind like mine, one idea drives another out of my head quicker than the changing wind alters the direction of a windmill's."

"Wretched slacker than I am!"

"Is it living to vegetate like fungus on a rotten trunk? I am completely immersed in the trivialities of my daily life. And besides, I must look ahead."

"Began early on Velazquez, but could do no work."

"Did a bad sketch from nature."

"All my days lead to the same conclusion: an infinite longing for something which I can never have, a void which I cannot fill, an intense desire to create by every means and the struggle as far as possible against the flight of time and the distractions that deaden my soul."

"All day long I have been feeling ill and stupidly miserable."

"It is now the fifth month from the beginning of the year. Have I spent the time dreaming? It has gone like a flash!"

"How I detest these minor poets, with their rhymes about glory and victory and nightingales and meadows! How many of them have really discribed what a nightingale makes one feel?"

"Work is constantly interrupted, and it all comes from associating with too many people."

"The very people who believe that everything has already been discovered and everything said, will greet your work as something new, and will close the door behind you, repeating once more that nothing remains to be said."

"I am far too lazy to bestir myself about money, although at intervals I worry about the outcome of it all. When one has money one feels no joy in possessing it, but when money is lacking one misses the enjoyments it provides."

"What moves men of genious, or rather, what inspires their work, is not new ideas, but their obsession with the idea that what has already been said is still not enough."

1. View of Tangier by Eugene Delacroix, date: 1832

2. Streets and shops with characters, handwritten notes by Eugene Delacroix, date: 1832

3. Arab Studies Camp by Eugene Delacroix, original title: Etudes de campement arabe.

#My favourite girl Grace Hartigan was gushing about this Journal of his #and seriously #It's great #eugene delacroix #what a mood #journal entry #diary entry #journal #diary #relatable #artist #art

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hyper-fixate · 4 years ago

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you wouldn’t believe the dream I just had about you and me

[The other night, during a 3 am feed, I saw a post about soulmate prompts (I found it!) and saw this one (paraphrased):

20. They recognize their soulmate because they’ve heard their laughter in their dreams.

And today, those immortal husbands wouldn’t let me leave it be. Title from Some Nights by Fun.]

updated with AO3 version.

------- Yusuf remembered when his older brother, Hamza, had gotten married to a shy dress maker from the village over. She looked beautiful. She had hand stitched a beautiful pattern across the skirt of her simple tunic, with looping branches and leaves. A tree, the joining of two families to make one. Yusuf had been intrigued by it, choosing to sit by his new sister’s knee and gently traced his fingers along it. Something in the soft blue-green thread intrigued him. He knew he would sketch it in the hearth this evening, as he lay watching the fire dwindle to embers. His mother tried to shoo him away, admonishing him for touching the precious dress with his sticky fingers but Karima gently placed her hand on the nape of his neck and smiled at him beneath her veil.

‘Are you happy to be married to my brother?’ Yusuf asked breathlessly. Only seven, but already his mind was filled with the glory of love. The romance he still saw in his parents eyes as they brushed gentle fingers against each other’s cheeks and arms. He knew his parent’s love story and it warmed him to know that they were blessed with so many long, happy years together. He fell asleep with the same fervent prayer on his lips: let me have a soulmate too.

‘Yes, little brother.’ Karima glanced at Hamza in a way that was so tender and loving, Yusuf blushed as though he had intruded on something intimate. ‘From the moment I heard his laugh, it was as if a great weight was lifted from me.’

‘Then I heard hers, and she snorts. Like a boar.’ Hamza had come over to them, grasping one of Karima’s hands in his and drawing it to his lips. She swatted at him with her free hand, but she did laugh. And it did end in a small snort, a joyous noise that seemed to escape her against her will.

‘How did you know, then,’ Yusuf considered his words carefully, ‘that it was dreams of your soulmate and not a boar?’

That drew a great laugh from Hamza. He laughed with his whole body, throwing his head back and even Karima giggled lightly.

‘Little brother, your mind is a treasure.’ Hamza gently ran his thumb over Karima’s knuckles and they exchanged that look again. ‘I must continue to check on our guests? Do you need anything?’

‘No, our little brother is taking good care of me.’ Karima said and Yusuf felt the tops of his ears heat at the easy nature in which she accepted him. Hamza kissed her hand again and, with a whispered endearment, left them. Karima looked down into Yusuf’s shining eyes.

‘Do you wish to know a secret?’ She looked at him conspiratorially, and he nodded. ‘You must not say anything.’ Yusuf held his finger over his lips, to mime his silence. ‘But a part of me was so glad that my soul was bound to one so handsome and I was instantly ashamed. To be gifted a soulmate so close and so easy to find and to be concerned with his looks?’ She sighed, leaning back into her chair. ‘But what has been the greatest blessing is getting to hear your brother’s laugh at all hours of the day, not just in my dreams.’

She had a hazy smile on her lips, one Yusuf knew well from watching his parents. He had tried to capture that smile in drawings. Tried to imagine it on his own face when he caught his reflection in still water. To imagine the contentment of knowing you had found the other half of your soul, that you were finally on the path you had been destined to tread. He swallowed painfully.

For Yusuf had a secret. A dark, terrible secret, that felt so heavy in his young heart.

Yusuf was not certain he had a soulmate.

He knew how it worked. That when your soulmate laughed, you would hear it that night in your dreams. His father, Ibrahim, had spoken of the joy he had, growing up and hearing his mother’s light laugh every night. How happy he’d been, knowing his future partner was so carefree and easy to laugh. How he’d felt his heart would explode when he’d heard that laugh, outloud, that fateful day in the market. How it had speared him through his heart. And Yusuf had sighed at the romanticism of it.

But Yusuf didn’t hear laughter in his dreams. Not really. Sometimes he thought he heard small huffs, little sighs of sound. But never laughter. Not the type that seemed to ring in his family home at all times of the day. When Ibrahim caught Mariam in his arms and swung her. When Hamza told stories of the men at the docks, trying to haggle for the wares. When Karima brought him sweets from the market.

When Hamza and Karima announced that there would be even more laughter to look forward to, their intertwined hands splayed over her flat stomach.

He was nearly thirteen when Yusuf woke suddenly, spilling the papers he had been sketching on before he’d fallen asleep. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but he knew what had woken him. A deep noise that sounded warm and joyful, but still so restrained. As he chased the dream, the noise seemed to slip through his memory and he couldn’t hold it. But a small giggle bubbled from his own lips.

It had been a laugh.

He had a soulmate.

A more painful thought occurred to him, then. His soulmate had had so very little opportunity to laugh that it had taken nearly thirteen years to hear it properly. He did not think discovering he had a soulmate would have made his heart heavier. But the ache in his chest when he realised that there was someone out there for him, but that this person did not have the joy Yusuf had? That cut him deeply. He scrambled out of bed and folded his body into the familiar shape of prayer. He swore, as solemnly as he could, to bring such joy to his partner that he would know that dreamy contentment Karima had shared with him all those years ago, on her wedding day. I will hear your laugh at all hours of the day, to make up for years worth of missed dreams.

Yusuf, like any good romantic, was also predisposed to fits of melancholy. He was not sure what he had done to upset Allah. He had had a good childhood, his silent existential crisis about not having a soulmate not withstanding. He had enjoyed his work with his father and brother, travelling by land and sea to trade their goods. Some part of him kept his feet moving. He seemed to know, deep down, that his quiet, solemn soulmate would not be found in the next village over. So he had travelled happily, easily charming those he met with a sharp wit and an easy wink. At every new market, new town, new inn, he wondered if this would be the moment he heard it. Heard the laugh that would begin his life anew.

Then that damned Frankish pope had called his holy war and everything had changed.

There was no laughter anywhere, not anymore. Not when Yusuf’s days were spent trudging through endless sands with this damned man. He’s not sure what made him offer his hand in peace after the last time they woke up. Honestly, it was more fatigue than any sort of mercy. He was covered in sand, his own blood, the Frank’s (Nicolo, his mind unhelpfully supplied) blood. There was bone and gore in his hair, caked under his nails and in his mouth. Surely anything would be better than this. Even walking with his once enemy who was trapped in this living hell with him.

It took many weeks for them to realise they shared a common language. It took them months to accept that whatever curse they both suffered had held and that perhaps, they should stop trying to kill one another and at least be civil.

Nicolo’s Greek was slow and halting, half remembered from when he was a boy and before he had been promised to the church. Yusuf’s years of travelling made languages easier for him and between Greek and exaggerated hand movements, he had begun to pick up bits and pieces of Nicolo’s mother tongue. Nicolo still tripped over Arabic hopelessly, but was a dedicated student. He asked constantly for the names of things and spent hours repeating them to himself, to try and imprint them on his tongue.

Yusuf watched his hopeless companion and decided that perhaps he had not angered Allah that badly. Though their meeting had been so violent, he had seen a kindness under the layers of doctrine and faith, an eagerness to learn and experience this new world. Nicolo was distractedly oiling his long sword whilst clumsily rolling the strange Arabic consonants and vowels around his tongue. He misprounounced every word.

His companion was amusing if nothing else. And a fairly good cook.

And that’s why you don’t tempt fate. Yusuf thought a moment later, as his musings were cut short by the sharp pain in his neck and he barely had time to see Nicolo jump to his feet as his world tilted sideways and went dark.

Yusuf awoke with a violent gasp. He sat up, his hands scrambling to his neck. His fingers found nothing but tacky blood. Nicolo was watching him, his eyes oddly bright in the dying light.

‘What happened?’ Yusuf asked, his voice rasping. He put his hands on his thighs, trying to ground himself. Nicolo moved back slowly, sitting down in front of Yusuf.

‘Bandits.’ Nicolo jutted his chin towards his right. Yusuf saw two bodies laying in pools of dark blood. ‘They shot you with an arrow.’ A small movement out of the corner of his eye drew Yusuf’s gaze back to Nicolo. He was holding an arrow bolt in his hand. ‘You did not wake up.’ Nicolo said, swallowing hard. ‘Not until I pulled out the arrow. I had thought-’ There was a half strangled sound from the Genoan. ‘I was wondering if your stubborn refusal to die was just at my hand.’ Nicolo said it so quietly, Yusuf’s tired brain took a moment to make sense of it.

It was easier to understand Nicolo’s tone in zeneize, his mother tongue. But Yusuf could hear fear in this man’s voice in any language. Anger and fear had been their first shared language, after all. Yusuf tore his eyes from the arrow, the arrow Nicolo had to tear from his neck, and back at his companion and saw the other man’s tunic was covered in blood.

‘Are you well?’ Yusuf reached out, his hand poised in the air between him. Nicolo didn’t move away, but stared at Yusuf’s hand as one would a snake about to strike. ‘Did they hurt you?’ Yusuf tried to make the return of his hand seem casual and not stilted, but the tension still hung in the air.

‘This is mostly yours.’ Nicolo said, waving to his chest. ‘It sprouted out of you like a fountain when I pulled this out.’ He rubbed a hand across his cheek, smearing more blood. He grimaced when his hands came away tacky. ‘How bad is it?’

‘For you? It’s an improvement.’ Yusuf said in perfect zeneize and in such a deadpan manner that it startled a laugh out of his companion.

Yusuf froze.

For a full moment, he wondered distantly if his heart had actually stopped and he was in the liminal space between their deaths and their gasping rebirth.

Nicolo laughed. Nicolo laughed.

And Yusuf knew that laugh.

He moved almost as a blur, reaching for Nicolo before the other man could react. Yusuf’s hands caught Nicolo’s face and the force of his movement knocked the paler man back, wedged uncomfortably, half on his knees and half on his pack. Nicolo squawked indignantly, trying to move away, his hands searching for a weapon on instinct. But it was too far away and the manner in which Yusuf had pinned him made it impossible to lever himself off his feet. Yusuf shushed him, softly, gently. Trying to convey that he meant no harm as one hand slid Nicolo’s hair away from his face and Yusuf searched those damned beautiful eyes for something.

‘What are you doing?’ Nicolo, extremely confused and uncomfortable, stumbled out in slightly mispronounced Arabic, following it with a small huff at the manic look on Yusuf’s face. And it speared Yusuf right through the heart.

He knew that sound too. And his heart flew and broke and started thumping in his chest as if it wished to escape his flesh. Something had to escape, so Yusuf threw his head back and laughed. Nicolo went still under him, his eyes blown wide.

‘Mio Dio.’ Nicolo gasped under him and Yusuf couldn’t help himself.

He laughed again.

(Prologue, of sorts)

‘And I kept my promise, I have tried every day to make him laugh. If only I’d known as a boy, so unsure of my dreams, how those small noises of joy would make my heart soar. How drawing a full bodied laugh from this quiet, thoughtful priest would make my blood boil in a very different way then when we met-’ Joe says

‘Yes, yes. We get it. You’re still disgustingly sweet.’ Andy sits down, her hands curled around a vodka bottle and offers it to Nile. Nile shakes her head. Andy takes a swig straight from the top.

‘Wait, so you didn’t laugh around each other for months?’ Nile looks slightly dazed.

Nicky shrugs. ‘We were too busy trying to kill each other.’

Joe laughs.

Nicolo’s point of view here.

#Joe x nicky #the old guard #immortal husbands #kaysanova #yusuf al-kaysani #nicolo di genova #soulmate au #fanfic #I just can't stop thinking of all of joe's great big laughs and nicky's little small ones #I may have also changed the word fringe to hair #10 years in the uk and I still couldn't do it #but bangs just sounds silly #beans writes fanfic

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final-servamp-banter · 4 years ago

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Leader: Tsubaki

His White Day route gave me feels so. Have him.

Tsubaki x4

Tsubaki:”Huh? There’s four of me? Ah, I get it! Everyone’s in disguise!”

With Mahiru

Tsubaki:”Hello, Mahiru Shirota-kun. Seems like I’m free today, too. Tell me something interesting~ If it’s boring, you have to do haraodori!”

Mahiru:”Th-That’s an unreasonable demand! Haraodori isn’t even performed at dinner festivals these days!” *

With Kuro

Tsubaki:”Big Brooooother, let’s plaaaay~ How about we lightly kill each other?”

Kuro:”S-Stop...... Your big bro is busy right now......”

With Sakuya

Tsubaki:”Sakuya~?!! You left a crumpled plush fox in the washing machine, you know?! If you wash it, dry it properly!!”

Sakuya:”Oh, sorry. Oof, it’s totally moldy... Maybe I should throw it away...”

Tsubaki:”That’s because you left it there!!! Take some responsibility and wash and dry it properly again, and tonight, put a pyjama on it and hug it tightly while you sleep!!!”

Sakuya:”Eh... That’s a lot of demands...”

With Belkia

Tsubaki:”Be~l! I’ve got nothing to do, so let’s go cause a massacre somewhere around there~”

Belkia:”I’m coming I’m coming~! I know a good spot for massacres, so I’ll take you there with me today, Tsubakyun~★☆★“

With Otogiri

Tsubaki:”Hey Otogiri, shall we go eat lunch together? The lunch set of that sushi restaurant is a great deal~”

Otogiri:”Huh? What were you saying? Something about lunch at a soba restaurant...?”

Tsubaki:”She’s showing a sudden overbearing deafness...! A-All right, let’s go to a soba restaurant...”

With Higan

Tsubaki:”Higan~ Did you drop your cell phone again? Maybe you should wear it around your neck?”

Higan:”Haha... Well, if it finds its way back to you, Tsubaki, I’ll do something about it. It’s hard for an old man like me to deal with that kind of electronics~”

With Shamrock

Tsubaki:”Sham, Sham~ I’m hungry~ Make something special~”

Shamrock:”Yes, I’ll do as you command, young master!!! Then I’ll make matcha sweets! I shall become an apprentice at a famous Japanese confectionary, so please wait for a while!!!”

Tsubaki:”Sorry, that was my bad! It doesn’t have to be special! It’s fine! Don’t go, Sham!!!”

With Lilac

Tsubaki:”Lila, what’s wrong? You look like you’re feeling down. Do you want me to call Belkia so you can watch some magic tricks? If you watch him fool around, I’m sure you’ll feel better?”

With Tsurugi

Tsubaki:”Hello, Hound of C3. Do you have today off? ...... That’s good then. I’m not in the mood for that today, either.”

Full Melancholy Team

Tsubaki:”Oh, we’re all here~ Well, there’s finally four of us, so let’s start playing mahjong~”

Swimwear Theme Team

Tsubaki:”It’s summer! We’re wearing swimsuits! It’s a vampire-filled swimming tournament! ...... Watch my magnificent swimming style!”

------------------------------

T/N: “Haraodori” (literally belly dance, but has not much to do with arabic belly dance) is a traditional Japanese art form, where you paint a face on your chest and stomach and dance to make it move.

I love how Tsubaki dotes on his Subclass... His conversation with Lilac is so SWEET! 😭😭😭 Okay yes, true, his hobby is mass murder, but we all have our flaws! And he takes the poor fox plush to heart so much asdhasdkhlj

#Servamp #Tsubaki Servamp #Servamp Tsubaki #Who Is Coming #Tanaka Box #Translation #Can you believe I've still not managed to pull Dodo or Izuna?#I need Dodo for Lily! And Izuna for Freya (and to complete Tsurugi lmao)

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tawakkull · 3 years ago

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ISLAM 101: Spirituality in Islam: Part 79

Chila (Suffering)

Denoting abandonment of all (worldly) pleasures and delights, and the affliction and hardship one bears when overcoming corporeality, chila (suffering) is used to express an initiate’s spending at least forty days in strict austerity and self-discipline in the name of spiritual training. During this period, initiates keep to the absolute bare minimum in meeting such bodily needs as eating, drinking, sleeping and speaking, and spend most of their time in worshipping, mentioning God, thinking and self-supervision. As if they had died before dying, they concentrate on death and are annihilated with respect to their carnal self and prepares for a new, spiritual life with the necessary endowment to be persons devoted to God.

Dervishes spend the period of suffering either in a silent corner of a dervish lodge or in a quiet room in their homes. Associated with austerity and even serving to fulfill some of its functions, suffering is an attempt to gain nearness to God or an active expectation of meeting with Him in the spirit. The original word used, chila in Persian and arba’in in Arabic, means forty, because such a period lasts at least forty days, although it may last less or more than forty days. It may even occur that the dervish feels obliged to suffer the whole life long in order to surmount the animal aspect of his or her nature. Regarding all hardships that dervishes suffer in God’s way as His precious gifts, they like life more as its griefs and hardships increase, and they welcome afflictions in the delight of living a conscious, deeply felt life. Some people of the heart consider misfortunes as Divine favors presented in that form, and desire more. Fuduli expresses his thoughts in this respect in the voice of Majnun as follows:

Never reduce Your grace on people of affliction; That is, make me addicted to more and more misfortunes.

Jalal al-Din al-Rumi likens suffering and afflictions to a guest knocking on our door every morning and stresses that the dear guest should be welcomed and entertained:

Every moment a grief comes upon your heart like a dear guest. When that emissary of grief visits you, welcome it as a friend; In fact, it is not a stranger to you, for You and it are acquainted.

Ibrahim Haqqi voices the same thoughts, dressing them in the style of his age:

If grief and melancholy come upon your heart, Suffer it and know that it is acquainted with you. If anything occurs to you from the Truth, Accept it with warm welcome. Sorrow is a guest, entertain it, so that God may find you welcoming every misfortune. ………… Hold not back from affliction so as not to become unmanly; Many people relying on God are happy with affliction.

Ashrafoghlu Rumi[1] advises that poison should be accepted as if it were honey or sugar:

Ashrafoghlu Rumi, this is what behoves those who love the Beloved, They should swallow poison as if it were sugar for the sake of the Friend.

In this way, it is essential to be very welcoming toward misfortunes, and to welcome with the same contentment whatever comes from God-good or bad, happiness or suffering. Moreover, there are some other principles which dervishes should observe during certain periods of suffering that they spend in retreat.

Suffering, which usually lasts for forty days, is the most direct way for travelers to God who are in pursuit of lofty ideals to purify their minds and hearts and to deepen in thought and feelings in consideration of the world beyond, and to rise to the level of life in the horizon of the heart and spirit where they will share the same aura with spiritual beings. Suffering exists in all the heavenly or unheavenly religions and religion-like spiritual systems; it is necessary in order to discover the innate power of the spirit. But here we will not discuss that aspect of it, which rather concerns mystical movements and parapsychology.

Muslim Sufis base their consideration of suffering on the forty days which the Prophet Moses spent on Mount Sinai before being addressed by God (see, the Qur’an 2:51; 7:142). They also refer to the forty years the Children of Israel had to spend in the desert of Sinai as a punishment for their refraining from fighting and as a preparation for their future life. In Christianity, there is the time of Lent (a period of forty days before Easter), which shows that suffering is common to almost all religions and religion-like systems. Furthermore, even if it only lasts ten days, retreat into a mosque without going out during the last ten days of Ramadan for the purpose of more devotion can also be considered as having some relation with suffering.

In the Muslim, Christian and Jewish worlds, and in different schools of thought in Islam, there have always been retreat and seclusion for the purpose of spiritual refinement and training. While such refinement and training have been performed in special rooms of retreat and seclusion, called houses of suffering, followers of others religions have performed the same in the seclusion of their places of worship.

Dervishes are taken into a retreat or a house of suffering by their spiritual guide. There they live alone, eating, sleeping, and speaking little, and spending most of their time in worship. They hold themselves under strict control and self-supervision, continuously breathing life into the heart, and traveling in the mind between their inner world and the outer world. Wholly dedicated to attaining a purely spiritual life, they try to feel the Lord with all their being and to see beyond the door half-opened on the heart. Endeavoring to discern and attain unity, they fear missing any signs of the Divine manifestations that may dawn on the hills of the heart. They express the limits of their capacity and the insufficiency of their will-power with sighs of poverty and helplessness, and become more hopeful with their reliance on the limitless Power of the Truth. When left with no means at all, they expect to be surprised by the opening of a door, and unburdens themselves to their Lord, Who sees everything, in the manner of a poor beggar, saying:

Be kind to me, O my Sovereign, do not abandon favoring the needy and destitute! Does it befit the All-Kind and Munificent to stop favoring His slaves?

As long as they grow in knowledge and love of God, they deepen in relationship with the Lord, and devote themselves wholly to feeling and thinking of Him. Keeping the satisfaction of their essential needs to the barest minimum, and overcoming their corporeality, they become confidants of heavenly beings in their states, attributes and being, and begin to breathe the breezes of friendship with the Sovereign.

Although suffering always takes on the same form, dervishes experience it differently according to their capacities and their powers of resistance. Some are almost completely freed from corporeality and worldliness, and are content with extremely little to meet the essentials of life, spending all their time in worship, thinking and mentioning God. Some others try to live consciously every hour, minute and second, letting no part of life pass without an effort to attain His nearness. Hours pass, weeks follow one upon another, and hunger, thirst and other hardships continue, without any sign of ending, but a dervish who has been accustomed to suffering as a way of life never desires the periods of suffering to come to an end. However, when the first period of forty days ends, the guide investigates to see at what stage the dervish is. The guide looks into the heart of the individual or reflects upon any dreams or visions reported. If the dervish has reached the point of being able to lead a life at the level of the heart and spirit, the guide will then put an end to the period of suffering with certain ceremonies. But it is always possible that new periods will be assigned if the guide considers that the dervish still needs more suffering in order to complete the spiritual purification.

In addition to the Mawlawis-followers of the Sufi order attributed to Mawlana Jalal al-Din al-Rumi-Persians, Azerbeijanis and even some Baktashis-followers of a Turkish mystical order-have ceremonies of their own for suffering. To whatever spiritual order or way a dervish belongs, the purpose of suffering is that travelers to God should purify themselves, discover their inner world and advance toward new horizons through the steps that are to be taken during the spiritual journey, leading a life at the level of the heart and then deepening through their other innermost faculties, such as “the secret” and “the private,” and “the more private,” observing their relations with and duties to the guide, perceiving the significance of obedience to orders, and endowing their spirit with humility and a feeling of nothingness, sincerely adopting the principle of being a simple human being among the people. This is what the guides, who teach dervishes suffering, and the dervishes who suffer, are seeking and what they expect from suffering. The final goal is to become true, perfect human beings.

However, it is not inevitable that one must suffer a certain period in order to attain what is expected from suffering. It is possible to obtain the expected result by abstention from doubtful things, being content with the pleasures inherent in the lawful sphere under the supervision of a guide who has truly succeeded God’s Messenger, upon him be pace and blesssings, and who has achieved the degree of great sainthood, by the acknowledgment of one’s innate poverty and helplessness before God, by thankfulness to Him, by zeal in serving His cause, and by exceptional piety, abstinence, and sincerity. What is absolutely essential in this way is that we should not approach the forbidden things, we should be careful about doubtful things, and we should benefit from the lawful only to the extent of what is necessary.

For those who succeed the Prophets, suffering is, rather than preoccupation with worship and the recitation of God’s Names in seclusion, and the abandonment of an easy life for the sake of torment, the pursuit only of God’s good pleasure and approval, always being aware of God’s company even while among people, arousing in hearts zeal for worshipping God with sincere Islamic thoughts, feelings and attitudes, representing Islam in daily life in the best way possible, stirring up Islamic feelings in others, and by developing in others the desire to believe. This is the way of the Companions.

Suffering in this sense becomes, beyond our own spiritual progress, the dedication of our lives to the happiness of others in both worlds and living for others. In other words, we should seek our spiritual progress in the happiness of others. This is the most advisable and the best approved kind of suffering: that is, we die and are revived a few times a day for the guidance and happiness of others, we feel any fire raging in another heart also in our own heart, and we feel the suffering of all people in our spirits. Rather than only being aware of selfish considerations, such as “One who has not suffered does not mean what suffering is,” we groan with the afflictions and pains which others in our immediate and distant surroundings endure.

Actively expecting (exerting the necessary efforts for) the subsidence of the storms of denial and heresy is a great suffering, while enduring with humility and grace life among rude and ignorant people in order to enlighten them both mentally and spiritually is double suffering. The struggle with the cruel people who take belief in and submission to God as a sport and who reject Islamic values is suffering upon suffering. Finally, in an atmosphere where all the causes of suffering already mentioned exist, and where friends are unfaithful, where time and conditions are pitiless, where troubles are numerous, where cures are extremely scant, where enemies are powerful, and where the wheel of events turn in the opposite direction, to always breathe in the atmosphere of the Truth while having to live every moment of life as if sipping poison is the greatest of sufferings. All of this will help travelers to God to reach the final point in a very short time.

Those who suffered the most in this sense are the Prophets, and on their right and left are the pure, verifying scholars who succeed them and the saints. The hadith, Those who are subjected to the greatest afflictions and suffering are the Prophets, and then come others (according to the depth of their belief)[2] indicates this fact and reminds us that the intensity of suffering is directly proportional to the resistance of the sufferer.

There are few who really suffer in the sense that has been discussed here. It is not genuine suffering that people are subjected to in daily life. Those who really suffer feel suffering and bear it in their private worlds. It cannot be shared by others. The Prophet Joseph, upon him be peace, whose suffering began when he was cast into a well, experienced suffering doubly in a foreign county when he was sold as a slave and thrown into jail, and left among a people who had a different culture and language, and who did not sympathize with him. The suffering he experienced purified and perfected him in the name of his mission as a Messenger; and God made him nearer to Him. The Prophet Adam bore his suffering with tears, and Noah had to breast terrible disasters and destruction, while Abraham, whom God took to Himself as an intimate friend, always had to travel in rings of fire. The Prophet Moses, whom God addressed directly, struggled fiercely against the rebellion of brute force. Jesus, a pure spirit from God, called people to God under the fatal shadows of the gallows. And finally, the master of creation, upon him be peace and blessings, suffered all that the other Prophets and Messengers suffered. He wept tears, groaned and burnt inwardly for the salvation and happiness of others, but without displaying any sign of suffering.

Hundreds of sufferers from the first day of human history have tasted the pleasure of suffering for the salvation and happiness of others in both worlds in utmost submission to God and have been wholly dedicated to the life of others, without ever considering that they have been made to experience the greatest of sufferings. More than this, they have welcomed such suffering and have been intoxicated with the pleasure thus received.

Suffering of thought is also another great suffering. Thinking, leading others to think, setting themselves to solve the severest problems and world-heavy enigmas, including that of existence, is a form of suffering. Thought does not yield, but rather builds bridges between and composes the Divine Revelation and human thought, presenting to “hungry” and “thirsty” hearts and minds the pure extract produced from this composition. This is the suffering in which the heroes of suffering, who are as sincere as angels and who have followed the Messengers, have found an antidote for poison in the poison itself, peace and coolness in the fire, having experienced such with the greatest pleasure. Such people are fortunate that there is no end to their periods of suffering; they cannot be pleased with the idea that such suffering is bound to come to an end. If you attempt to take them out of gardens of suffering, you will not be able to do so; if you were able to do so, you would extinguish their fire and leave them to die.

It is this suffering which is the purest source that feeds the spirit of a true dervish, and which is the most powerful means for travelers to the Truth to reach eternality.

Our Lord! In You we trust, and to You we turn in contrition, and to You is our homecoming. Our Lord! Pour out upon us patience, and set our feet firm, and help us to victory over the unbelievers. And let God’s blessings be upon our master Muhammad, our leader, and on his family and Companions, who were the patient and faithful. [1] Ashrafoghlu ‘Abdullah Rumi (d., 1484) was a Sufi scholar and poet who lived in Iznik in the North-Western Turkey. He was taught by Haji Bayram Wali in Ankara and Husayn Hamawi in Hama, Syria. He wrote several books, the most well-known of which is Muzakki’n-Nufus (“The Book Which Purifies Souls”). (Trans.) [2] Al-Tirmidhi, “Zuhd,” 57; Ibn Maja, “Fitan,” 23.

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springlockedfoxy · 5 years ago

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A more fitting end

I really didn’t like the ending to the third story in the FNaF novel series.

So... I fixed it.

Major spoilers for the third story from Into the Pit.

A More Fitting End

As Millie saw the Sword of Damocles above her, she had to reformulate her plan. The light from the small gap shone on the blade, and she recognized it as a bit of sheet metal that had been beside the bear when she’d crawled into the infernal thing.

The blade descended, peals of laughter echoing around her as the creature indulged in its private joy.

Millie braced herself, before shoving her entire body to the right of the slicing guillotine. The sheet metal lodged into the bottom of the beast, and she heard it sigh with contentment.

“Wish granted, Silly Millie,” it said, as if proud of its accomplishment.

Millie tried not to even breathe as she rested against the wall of the bear’s stomach. She did, however, shift her weight just a little, and using the new leverage found with the sheet of metal, began pushing on the door to the bear’s belly.

“Hmm?” The bear hummed, a sound that would have been in its throat... if it had had one.

Millie pushed with all of her might, bracing her shoulders against the metal, her feet planted solidly against the door, until it sprang open with a bang, and Millie wasted no time in escaping the brazen bear. She turned on it, looking at the thing she’d been trapped in, seeing its rolling eyes, and the almost startled expression.

“How...?” It asked, before the black eyebrows drew down over the angered blue eyes. “Get back here,” it growled. “I’m not through with you!”

The whole creature shuddered as it began clambering to its feet.

Millie looked around, before she huffed, and didn’t wait for it to finish its movement. She lunged for the giant electrical kill switch.

The robot gasped, reaching out to stop her, but she hauled it down with all of her might, and everything went dark.

She stood, panting in the new oppressive silence.

Until echoing laughter began ringing in her ears.

“Silly Millie,” the voice of the bear growled, the eyes suddenly appearing above her, glowing brightly, the lights overspill illuminating its mouth. “I run on batteries!”

Millie screamed, blindly running through the workshop. She banged into the door, but a heavy metal paw pressed against it, keeping it closed.

“Foolish girl, did you think you’d escape so easily?” The bear chided, before grabbing her by the arm, and began making attempts to stuff her back into its gaping belly. She screamed, again and again until she was hoarse, fingernails raking at the plastic exterior.

“What’s going on in here?” a voice Millie had never heard be so strong rang out.

A flashlight raked across Millie’s eyes and her grandfather's face swam into view. He lifted a foot and booted the bear in the face. It rocked back at the impact, sending Millie tumbling to the floor.

The old man picked up a baseball bat and pranged it across the head a few more times.

Millie watched as the bear stopped moving, and grandpa prodded it with the weapon.

“It’s dangerous in here, Millie. Back to the house.” There was nothing in his tone that brooked any kind of response except doing exactly what he said.

Millie moved back into the house, her eyes down, feeling the warmth of the home wash over her.

She had a second chance.

Her eyes stung with tears as she saw the concerned faces of her relatives swim into view in the soft candlelight.

Wait, candlelight?

After a moment, the lights flickered back on again, and there was collective elation in the home.

Grandpa came stomping back in again. “Millie threw the breaker to the house,” he said. “Something was malfunctioning in the workshop.” He nodded down to Millie, and then moved past her, leaving the remaining half of the baseball bat resting against the wall.

Slowly, Millie waded into the normalcy of the room, looking at her relatives. She smoothed her dress down, and sat on the edge of the couch, feeling very self-conscious.

“Sorry about that. It was dangerous in there,” she said quietly.

“We were just about to call your parents,” her aunt said, her tone full of that forced cheer that people have when they’re trying to recover a feeling from before. “And we’ve not yet opened presents.”

Millie nodded a little but noted a few of the gifts were wrapped in black, with delicate lace bows.

And the sticker read her name.

She tilted her head some but heard her aunt fussing with Skype.

“Hello!” came her mom's cheery voice, always as if she were excited that she woke up alive today.

Millie looked over to her mother's smiling face, with her father jockeying for position in front of the camera.

“There’s my Millie!” Her father said, smiling.

“Hi, Dad,” she said quietly. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, honey! You look like you’ve been crying! Are you okay?”

“She’s just been cold. She was outside earlier.” Her grandpa answered for her. “Her nose is red because of it.”

She looked up at him, a little surprised, but took the tissue he offered and delicately addressed her face.

“Now, I know you said you weren’t celebrating Christmas this year,” her mom said, putting on a faux guilty tone. “But we’d already shipped your gift.”

A rustling beneath the tree and two small hands shoved a box wrapped in black paper, with velvet spiderwebbing roped across it.

A moment or two later her youngest cousin smiled up at her. “I get to be Santa this year!” He chirped.

Millie reached down and picked up the box, looking at it in her lap. She carefully untied the grey lace ribbon, unstuck the tape and opened the box.

“It’s fake leather,” her mom said. “And hand made.”

Inside the box was a book, done in the style of the old leather-bound tomes she’d coveted at the library. There was embossing, and delicate gold leafed accents.

On the front, in flowing golden script, there was some Arabic writing.

It was absolutely gorgeous. She lifted it out of the box, surprised at how light it was.

She flipped it open, the pages were all blank and had those unfinished edges of hand made books. At the back of the book, she discovered something different, a small electronic device.

“Your father and I couldn’t figure out how to get you all of the books we wanted to. But, since most of them are available in the Gutenberg project... we figured we’d get you a kindle, and you could always have all of them close.”

“Tell her about the words!” Her father said excitedly.

“Oh! Right. The script on the front says “The story of a lifetime”.” Her mom blinked. “Right?”

“About right, it’s a good translation. We had it made because we know how much you like to journal. So, it’ll carry your kindle, and you can write in it! We found a bookbinder here and got to pick out all parts of it. Really interesting process. Really an art to handcrafted books.”

Millie closed the cover, her heart pounding in her chest.

She didn’t think her parents noticed her. Didn’t know what she read, or that she even journaled. She looked up at their faces, her family’s wide smiles of anticipation, and this time, there was no cold weather to blame the tears on.

“Thank you,” she managed after a few attempts.

“Oh, goodness. Honey! Of course. We love you, and we wish we could have come home this Christmas.”

She had a savage retort on her tongue, but the memory of that bear’s laugh, and the glinting of the gold leaf against her fingers, she killed it before she took a breath to voice it.

“It would be great to see you,” she said, smiling as much as she could at them. “I love you too.” She still resented their leaving, but the fire in her heart wasn’t as hot.

She clutched the book to her chest, holding it as it it were a lifeline. She sat quietly, on the periphery of the holiday cheer, thinking over the past few hours.

The family eventually said goodbye to Millie's parents and settled into eating some of the leftovers, giving Millie a chance to try the tofurkey roast her grandfather had prepared. It had a strange texture and was a little overdone. She didn’t like meat because of the texture, and the flavor, and would have been fine without the fake meat, but, she ... appreciated her grandfather going out of his way to try something new, so she would too.

The family packed up, rounding up everyone into their individual vans or cars. A round of good wishes, and near hugs, Millie wasn’t quite there yet, and the house was silent again.

Millie breathed a sigh of relief as the howling pack was gone.

“Millie?” Her grandfather called from the dining room.

He probably wanted help cleaning up.

She sighed, and walked into the room, still clutching her book.

Grandpa had already cleaned the table, and on it were two small boxes.

“I know you said -“

“I want to this year,” she said, cutting him off. “I... that thing in the garage...”

“Won’t be a problem.”

She pressed her lips into a line, then nodded.

“I... got these for you.”

Her grandpa gestured to the two boxes. “Happy Holidays, Millie.” His smile was soft and somewhat sad. Melancholy, Millie’s thoughts supplied.

She looked up at him and approached, reaching out for the bigger box first.

“I didn’t want you to open these with your nephews around. They’re very fragile.”

She looked up at him, and then back down again, and carefully opened the box.

Inside was a glass dome. She reached in and pulled it free by the base.

To say two hummingbirds sat on branches would be doing a disservice to the art of the piece. A taxidermy hummingbird floated beside a flower, suspended by a shining silver wire beside a lily it had been carefully designed to look as if it had just selected just that one. And it was caught in a moment in time. Its feathers shone like gems in the light of the dining room. Beside it, the delicate skeleton of another tilted its head, as if watching the one above it.

“I... wasn’t sure what you’d think. But don’t worry, both of them died of natural causes.” Her grandpa said. “I know... you read a lot about the beauty... uh, the beauty in death. So, I tried to find something that.. you know, captured that.”

Her breath was taken away. Sure, the bobcat in the front hall was a little creepy, but this was something different.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said quietly. Remembering the tales of Victorian homes with their small gem birds on display. Had her grandfather really taken the time to find out what she was interested in? Had he really listened to her beyond the angry words she’d flung at him, and sorted through to find out the perfect gift? “I’m... speechless.” She said with a breathy laugh.

The old man smiled, his smile still a little sad.

“And, this one.”

He gently slid the small box forward.

She carefully picked up the small box and opened it.

Inside was a small locket, with a basket weave pattern under glass.

Her heart began to pound in her ears as she looked up at her grandfather, and back down again. The basketweave pattern came in two colors. The vertical weave was one that was jet black on the left, fading to peppery silver and finally white on the right, while the horizontal was a warm chocolate brown.

She popped the locket open ever so carefully, peering at the picture inside.

She was greeted by her grandmother's smiling face, and a much younger version of her grandfather kissing her cheek.

Her grandfather sat beside her, quiet as she processed what she had just been given.

“It’s a memento mori,” she said, as soon as she recovered her breath.

Her grandfather nodded. “It’s not custom to add a living person’s hair, but, I ain’t gonna be around forever. And I wanted to be with her in your thoughts.”

She gently closed the locket again, and looked up at him.

She felt like the world as she’d seen it lay shattered before her. That whatever dark glasses she’d been wearing had been ripped away, and she was left staring into this brilliance that wasn’t criticizing her but was trying to learn who she was, and okay they made mistakes along the way, but these people cared for her. They didn’t try to talk her away from what she spent her creative pursuits on.

And they got to know her, got to know who she was, so they could offer her something that catered to her. Something she would enjoy.

And she had not made it easy on any of them.

The weight of the locket settled comfortably against the hollow of her throat, but as her grandfather finished clasping it and let it rest, she felt the weight of the past year resting there as well. She touched the locket, the memento mori, not some strangers memento, but that of her own family, and felt she was able to breathe again.

She was cared for. She was loved.

She recognized her nastiness and the hard closing of doors between herself and others had been a way to protect herself from those she felt wouldn’t understand. But that protective shell had become a tomb in which she hadn’t let anyone in, for fear of being hurt, she had hurt those around her, who had just wanted to know who she was, who had wanted to share her interests.

And then she’d been upset that no one had understood.

She looked at the gifts, every one of them thoughtful and perfect.

And she had nearly lost all of this. Had her body bisected by a freaky robot bear.

She got up and gently wrapped her arms around the old man's shoulders.

“New Years is coming up soon,” she said. “I can’t promise anything, but... I want to be more mindful. And... more thankful.” She said, as he patted her arm gently. “I’ve ... really been kind of a brat, haven’t I?”

The old man shrugged. “You’re 14. You’re smart as a whip and twice as quick. You’re sorting out a lot of emotions, and life isn’t easy for you. I expect a little difficulty.” He said, smiling.

She nodded. “Thank you.”

He shrugged before he nodded again. “Let’s try starting with being more honest?” He asked.

Millie nodded her head. “I’ll try.”

“And maybe a little more grateful.”

Millie felt her cheeks flush, embarrassment at her prior behavior. “I think I can do that.”

The old man smiled. “And maybe doing your homework without a battle.”

“I’ve been doing that!” Millie said, smiling, sitting down again.

“I know. I just wanted to complain.”

“Speaking of complaints,” she said hesitantly. “I know I don’t have much room to ask. But, could we maybe make my room a little more... mine?”

Her grandfather tilted his head some.

“It doesn’t feel like I... fit in. I feel like I’ve just sort of been stuffed into grandmas old sewing room. Could we maybe move some of those things into storage, and let me reclaim the space?”

He looked at her, before he nodded. “I do understand that. And I think that’s something we can do.”

Millie smiled a little more. “Maybe put some new wallpaper up?”

“Don’t push your luck, girlie,” he chided gently.

Spring came in its usual way, and Millie was dressed in the most unlike her outfit she had ever worn. Overalls and a Tshirt.

“You hardly look like yourself,” Dillon said, draping some plastic over her bed.

“I feel so out of place!” Millie whined.

“Oh it’s not that bad,” Brooke said, helping Dillon spread the plastic out so it covered all parts of the bed they’d decided to just leave in the room. “You look cute. Not something I’d go to school in, but perfect for what we’re doing?”

She’d talked to Dillon, and a long conversation had melted the ice between them. The following weekend, they’d all gone to the tea house together, Dillon bringing Brooke along, and Millie had been pleasantly surprised to learn that Brooke’s mother was the taxidermist who had done the hummingbird display. Her mother worked with dead animals, which made Brooke want to learn how to keep them alive. She also had a wickedly dark sense of humor.

Brookes mother had also agreed to begin teaching Millie how to perform taxidermy so that she could bring death to life, and craft her own macabre creations.

A friendship had grown from the ice, and before long, the three of them were close friends.

Millie frowned. “As soon as we’re done here, I’m changing out of these.”

Brooke smiled and looked to the door as Grandpa hefted the bucket of wallpaper paste into the room. “You kids think this is going to be a one day deal?” He asked. “You’re in for a world of disappointment.”

He passed a scraper to each teen.

“Don’t dig into the plaster, were just scraping the paper off so we can put the new stuff up.”

The three teens looked at each other and nodded. “Goth princess room, here we come!” Brooke said, smiling brightly, thrusting her scraper into the air.

Millie smiled, watching as her new friends attacked the wallpaper.

It was symbolic, in a way, the thought, as she joined in. Peeling away layers to put something new, something where she fit. With the help of those who had helped her, by making room, so that she fit with them.

She reached up and touched the locket, smiling to the others, listening to Brooke excitedly exclaim how she’d found just the perfect starting point and grandpa fussing over the plaster.

Dillon smiled at her too, and she smiled back. She’d found her friends, and while her interests hadn’t changed, she still loved the concept of death and darkness, she had a whole new appreciation for life.

#into the pit spoilers #spoilers #into the pit #fnaf into the pit spoilers #Five nights at freddy's into the pit spoilers #five nights at freddys #fnaf

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