#behold. my sad wet dog boy

[aldercaps]

mister swamp man, bog me a man

[yikestripes]

Turning Tables

authors notes: 

Back with another Richie imagine, because i’m tozier trash (HA!) unfortunately i do write my own material, which is why it’s half baked at best

shoutout to my best friend for the inspiration for this one

“Rich, you comin?” Richie mumbled a response, not exactly listening. He was lost deep in his thoughts, all of which pertain to you. Not that you knew of course, that was one secret it seemed Richie Tozier would never tell.

“Come on, R-r-richie. I p-promise, s-s-she feels the same w-way! She was t-telling me just l-l-last week t-that you’ve b-b-be-been distant, she was w-w-wondering what she did wrong.” Richie refused to meet Bill’s eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude. I don’t feel any certain way about her,” Richie hesitated, hoping Bill wouldn’t catch the insecurity in his voice.

You were gorgeous, especially in Richie’s eyes. You were kind, caring, enough to make any guy go crazy. Which they did, always. Every new boy you dated, every person to walk you from your locker to class, made Richie’s blood boil. His excuse always ran along the same lines, “He isn’t good enough for you, you’re way out of his league. He’s such a douchebag, why’re you even with him? You can do so much better!” As all the Losers got older, it quickly began to dawn on them what kind of game Richie was trying to play.

“Come on, (Y/N)! I promise it isn’t as scary as it looks.” Richie grinned as you looked over the edge of the cliff, leading to the bright blue water below.

“I don’t know, Richie. I really don’t like heights- or falling.” You said, nervousness lacing your voice.

“Do you want me to jump with you?” Richie extended his hand, and you took it gratefully.

“On 3….”

“ 2,1! Close your eyes!” Richie took off, pulling you off the edge with him, flying into nothingness.

You hit the water with a loud splash and resurfaced to find Richie smiling at you, wide.

“See! I told you you could do it!” You blushed a little bit, feeling your hand still in Richie’s, under the water.

He seemed to realize at the same time as you, and ripped his hand away.

“You do realize you can’t do this to her forever, right? She’s gonna get frustrated, man.” Bill bore holes into the back of Richie’s head as he stared off in a different direction.

“Who even cares, Bill? She can have anyone she wants! She doesn’t want some loser like me,” Richie paused. He couldn’t have this debate again. He had it enough in his own head, let alone out loud with one of his best friends.

The rock in Richie’s stomach seemed to weigh heavier today, the closer he and Bill got to the quarry. Tension had never been so high with you before, so Richie was even more stressed out than usual, especially since he knew he would be seeing you in your bathing suit.

When they’d gotten there, you were sunbathing on a rock, presumably waiting for the rest of the Losers to show up. You were always first to the quarry, because it was one of your favorite peaceful spots for thinking. Since it overlooked sky blue water, and was the optimal place to sunbathe and just feel the sun on your skin, you were consistently at ease being at the quarry. It was your sacred spot.

Originally, it had been yours AND Richie’s, but as you two grew apart, he stopped showing up. You usually came here when you couldn’t sleep at night, and staring at the night sky helped you to sort out your thoughts. It made you feel as if you were so small in the big wide world, that your problems could be sorted out much easier than if the world seemed so small. Richie could almost always find you out here, wearing one of his sweatshirts, in your pajamas. You would talk about anything and everything, from your day at school to how his parents were never home, and what he was going to do. Where he was going to go, what was life outside of Derry like? You almost never talked about the encounter with It last summer, it was too traumatic, even a year later. The worst part was that one of the terrible images It conjured up for Richie, was you. Dead. Richie refused to talk about it, even after you were the first to find him. Somehow he’d gotten separated from the rest of the group, and kept calling out to you.

Lo and behold, he found your body amidst some garbage in one of It’s caves. His stomach jumped into his throat and tears slipped down his face as he stared.

“(Y/N)?” Richie’s voice cracked as he dropped to his knees, about to throw up. “(Y/N)!”

Richie reached out to caress your cold cheek when your supposedly dead body sat up, and maniacally grinned at him.

“Hiya, Richie!” You said in a voice not your own. Richie fell back with his eyes wide, as you slowly stood up. “Miss me?” You laughed, something inhumane.

“Wh-what? I thought y-y-you were d-d-”

“Dead?” Yeah! You left me behind, Richie. Why didn’t you save me, Richie?” You frowned. “You were supposed to be my savior. Why did you let me die?”

Richie was full out sobbing now, and kept backing up until he felt his back hit the wall of the cave behind him, as your likeness approached. Distantly, he heard someone screaming his name, and when he looked back to where you came from, no one was there. Richie hugged his knees and wept until you found him, scaring the living shit out of him, causing him to sob louder and harder.

“Rich, it’s okay, I'm right here! I’m fine, it’s okay.” His eyes were red and puffy by the time the rest of the Losers found you, and no one asked questions. They all had an idea of what happened, since Richie wouldn’t let you more than 5 feet from him the rest of the battle.

“Hey guys!” You said brightly, lifting your sunglasses into your hair. Richie gave a half baked grin as he went to set his backpack down, and Bill smiled.

“Are Stan and Eds taking their time again?” Bev asked, coming out from behind a tree.

“They’re probably taking turns sanitizing each other in between layers of sunscreen,” You said, making Richie laugh.

“Wow, (Y/N) gets off a good one!” Richie said in between bouts of laughter.

You smiled proudly, despite feeling a knot form in your stomach. Making Richie laugh was hard to do on it’s own, but unfortunately, you couldn’t bask in your success for long. Once the others finally got there, you were planning on taking a spare moment to pull Richie aside, and see what the hell was going on with him.

For about the last month, he’d been avoiding you entirely. It started slow at first, making excuses as to why he couldn’t hang out. He was sick, he wasn’t feeling well. He had too much homework. His dad asked him to mow the lawn.

As the excuses became more common, and Richie became more quiet around you, you really started to notice something wasn’t right.

Was he mad at you? Had you upset him somehow, and you didn’t even know? Or did he not want to be your friend anymore, but had to because of the rest of the losers?

This weirdness had been going on for about a month, and you were quickly getting frustrated with it. You decided it was now or never; you would finally confess your feelings to him.

Stan and Eddie showed up about 15 minutes later with Mike and Ben in tow, and it was FINALLY time to get the party started.

You took turns chicken fighting one another, you on Richie’s shoulders, and then Eddie on yours. You were the reigning champion, having the most total knock-offs.

“Woah, you’re really strong!” Richie remarked, shaking out his wet hair like a dog when he resurfaced. Richie ran a hand through his wet curls and headed towards the shore.

“Hey, can we talk really quick?” You asked, swimming after him.

“Sure. What’s up?” Richie asked, making eye contact with Bill, who gave him a look before throwing an arm around Bev’s shoulders.

“I meant privately.” Your eyes hardened slightly.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Lead the way.” He reached up to rub the back of his neck, an awkward tension had settled in the air.

You walked in the direction of the bonfire area, a ways away from the Losers in the water. They pretended not to notice you disappear, sharing one common thought.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” You asked.

Richie refused to make eye contact with you, picking at his cuticles instead.

“I don’t know.” He mumbled.

“What do you mean, “you don’t know”? You’ve literally been avoiding me for a month. You have to leave when I show up, you won’t return my phone calls, and you haven’t come to the cliff in weeks! What did I do, are you mad at me for some reason? Did I upset you somehow?”

“I mean I don’t know! I just can’t be in the same room with you sometimes, it’s like torture!” He snapped.

“What do you mean it’s torture? We were best friends 2 months ago, what the fuck happened?” Hot tears were streaming down your face as your voice cracked, giving way to your anger and sadness. Richie took a shaky breath to steady his voice.

“Fuck, alright. Listen, (Y/N), I have to tell you something. I-i wasn’t sure how to tell you, and I really didn’t realize how long I’d been fucking lying to myself until a few years ago.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck it. I-i don’t know how to say this, other than to just say it. I’ve been fucking in love with you since we were little kids.” Richie said quietly as tears spilled down his cheeks, still refusing to meet your eyes.

Your eyes widened.

“You what?” Your breath hitched in your throat.

“I was so afraid to tell you because I thought it was going to ruin our friendship and like you mean so much to me that I didn’t want to make things weir-”

You cut Richie off by crashing your lips onto his, so soft and familiar, but fireworks and your own heartbeat echoing in your ears all at the same time.

“Richie Tozier, you idiot, I’ve been waiting to hear you say that for 10 years.”

Richie’s eyes scanned your face for any sort of hint at a joke, or waiting to wake up from another sick Pennywise-induced nightmare.

“I didn’t realize it until recently, how much I loved you growing up. I never knew how to talk to you about it or bring it up, I didn’t want to make things weird between us. You were my best friend and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, especially because of something as stupid as me.”

You gave him a small smile, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, don’t say that. You’ll never lose me.”

Richie broke out into a huge grin.

You raised your eyebrows as he kissed you again.

“Doing that is NOT gonna get old.”

[im-tops-bottom]

Hello, my dear! I will just randomly and hopefully leave this here: Pining!Jace. Really very pining. Remember that scene of Magnus training shirtlessly on the balcony?? Jace watching and waaanting. It takes Magnus someone pointing it out for him to realize! *puppy dog eyes*

Yes you may...........

As soon as Jace returns back to the loft after a tiring yet fun mission he immediately looks for Magnus in hopes of food.

What he finds sends his emotions spiralling out of control. The sight of a shirtless Magnus working out and practising magic is a sight to behold.

The beautiful, well built warlock who has pretty much been a wet dream for Jace. The man that keeps Jace up late at night thinking. The man who causes Jace to get hurt in a battle because he can't help but wonder if the man would ever like him the same way he does.

He watches Magus move his body in ways he can only dream of. Watches arms, hips, legs, magic move about in fluid motions like he was made to be a dancer, a theatre performer. If he wasn't a warlock he would of made a sexy stripper, a beautiful pole dancer, or even be in a royal ballet of sorts.

Half of him wants to shove Magnus to the ground and ride him like there's no tomorrow and the other half wants to pack his stuff just get out of Dodge.

Maybe change his name, dye his hair and grow facial hair. Would anyone recognize him or would they think he was just a lost man with nowhere to go.

Just as he feels drool drop onto his hand, he has to freeze Midway from wiping his face when catlike eyes stare back at him. He notices the smirk that is forming probably because of the shocked state he is in at being caught.

'maybe I should run away. Paris, Xavier Gallant is making permanent residence there tonight' he thinks to himself as he fails to recognize Magnus walking up to him.

It's not until he realizes he unconsciously retreated and hit a wall, that Magnus now has him trapped. He's completely pinned to the wall with the taller man looking down on him.

His whole body flutters as he finds himself wondering if this is heaven.

"this is definitely not heaven puppy. We're both alive and here on Earth"

Jace winces as he thinks 'i said that out loud' and has to wince again when mangus chuckles and let's out a "you said that out loud too".

Jace can feel his face heat up and he has to look any and everywhere that didn't have Magnus in his peripherals.

"do I make you nervous Blondie?"

"no. No. But it'll help a tiny if you put a shirt on"

"why when the shirt will come right back off?"

"why would it come back off?"

Jace's eyes close tightly and he hears Magnus sigh and take a step back giving Jace space to breathe.

"you honestly don't know what's going on do you?"

Jace has to open his eyes at this point so he could stare at Magnus in confusion.

"what?"

"people were telling me you were dense but I didn't realize you were this dense"

"wow. Thanks"

"im in love with you"

"im sorry. You are what now?"

Jace squints as he tries to process what's happening. 'this can't be true. Can it?'

"i said I'm in love with you and I know you have feelings for me."

Jace tries to take a step back in shock as reality comes crashing down and hits him like a car. He knows the feeling. He will never forgive one of his friends for drunkenly hitting him and sending him off his bike. Destroying his precious girl that he worked so hard building and had to work even harder to rebuild.

"earth to Jace!"

Jace jolts as he feels a hand on his cheek and blushes once again as he realizes he was way into his memory of the crash that he forgot what was actually happening.

"sorry what?"

"oh for a minute there I thought I lost you"

"i am lost. I'm lost and confused by what you said?"

"at what part? The part where I said I'm in love with you? Or the part where I said I know how you feel about me?"

"all of it because if you knew about my feelings then why didn't you say anything? In fact, are you just saying you have feelings for me out of pity?"

"what? Absolutely not. In fact I fell in love with you before I found out about how you felt"

"what?"

"I've been in love since we first met. In fact I thought the flirting was obvious"

"you flirted with my parabatai as well"

"not in the beginning. It was only you. I thought you weren't gay a few months later and decided to see if i could see a future with Alexander"

"and did you?"

"no. Even Alexander thought so too because he spent 10 minutes yelling at me saying how sad you were that i cut back on talking and flirting with you. I was tryna figure out why and when I started to only pay attention to you I realized why he yelled at me"

"was I that easy to read?"

"i talked to the girls about it and Izzy said everyone knew. she was the first to realize we liked each other and was to dumb to see it. She was happy that finally one of us noticed"

"oh. I see"

"but I guess it'll make me feel slightly better if I heard it from the pretty boy himself. So what do you say princess?"

"stop calling me princess"

"ill stop when you tell me all about your cute little crush on me"

"ugh fine. I've liked you right from the start and Alec was right. I did feel down when you stopped flirting with me but I felt great again when you started flirting with me again. I was worried when you stopped because I thought that maybe you realized how i felt about you and it scared you off. Then I thought you had a thing for Alec. I guess I was just being stupid"

"no you are allowed to feel that way. It didn't help with my flirting with Alec so I'm sorry on my part. What do you say to me having a quick shower and then I take you out to a fancy restaurant in Italy so we can discuss everything amd clear the air. I know this romantic spot where we can look up at the stars"

"wow no one has ever asked me out on a date before. Usually it's a let's hit the clubs for a drink and see if we get laid tonight"

"well then you are in for a treat. I'm gonna take great care of my boyfriend"

"boyfriend"

"well let's see how this first date goes and once we clear the air then we can see if I can make you my boyfriend, princess"

"call me princess one more time and you'll find yourself coming home alone and masterbating for the next hundred years"

"okay okay. Let's get ready then my queen"

"ugh im gonna have a shower and pretend you did not just say that"

"love you"

"love you too"

Jace bounces down to his room happily as he rushes around getting ready for his big date with the man of his dreams wondering what went so great in his life that lead him here. Things just can't get any better than this

[coffeesforfuckers]

Our Summers Together Are My Best Kept Secrets And My Biggest Mistakes // Chapter Five

Ships: Peterick, Brallon, Ferard, Trohley, Jalex, Zian and others in the background

Description: Summers for most kids are spent going to the beach and on vacations with your family but lots are shipped off to summer camps for the whole summer. But the kids at Hempman Summer Camp actually beg to go! Patrick Stump, Andy Hurley and Joe Trohman all met there, they had all known each other for probably over a decade because of this absolutely amazing stay-away camp for kids from the ages of six to nineteen. All the kids that were there came back until they couldn't and they always had the same kids except a few new, younger, kids every year. That is until the year that the weird kid with the jet-black, dyed, black fringe and the crazy piercings and a couple tattoos comes in like he owns the place. That year also happens to be the same year that Patrick Stump gets gum stuck to the new emo kid's face and hair. It was love at first sight... But hate at first interaction for the blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy and the complete opposite for the new kid, Pete Wentz.

Chapter 5: Five: Crying into the Void That is You

Joe

The summer’s coming to a close and I wasn’t ready to watch Andy leave again. It was almost a form of torture in my opinion, I just wanted to kiss him forever and never let him go.  We only have a week left together.

I have my arms wrapped around him in a tight grip, my face is pushed into the crook of his neck, breathing in his warm scent as I sit on him, my legs wrapped around his waist. I never want this to end.

“I don’t want to leave.” Andy breathes ever so softly.

“Then stay here with me… Please , Andy… Don’t leave me.” I hug him tighter and he sucks in a shaky breath.

“You know that I would if I could, Joe.” He mumbles as he presses his face into my bushy hair.

“Please don’t leave.” I beg even harder as I blink back the tears that well in my eyes at the thought of watching him board that plane back home.

“I want to… You know that I want to and if it were up to me I would never leave your side again… I just want you to be happy but I can’t… I’m so sorry, Sunshine.” And that’s when I crack and let the tears fall freely, hearing him call me such sweet things when I know that he’s hurting so badly. Every year this happens and every year he suggests breaking up because he ‘can’t’ make me happy, “No, baby, please don’t cry…” He holds me closer, rubbing my back and kissing my head softly.

“I just love you so much, Bean.” I whimper, crying so hard I can barely catch my breath.

“I love you too, Pumpkin, so, so much.” I feel the side of my head growing wet, Andy was crying too…

I always had this deep ache in my chest as the days lessened, this want to just scream and cry, throw a tantrum until I got what I wanted. Deep down I was that screaming child, pitching a hissy-fit over that toy that I was denied in the store. Only that ‘toy’ was more than just a toy to me, I needed it, I craved it and it hurt not to have it. I couldn’t scream, all that came was whispers, begging and pleading with him to never leave.

We stay there, holding onto each other as if we let go the other would disappear, mumbling soft ‘I love you’s that meant more than just I love you, each word bled emotion, sadness, lust, passion, and everything inbetween. I held onto each syllable as if it were the last time I’d ever hear those words.

I was so afraid to lose him to someone new.

Something better because I knew that almost anything was better than me.

Pete

“Mikey… What if Ray didn’t love you and he like, hate you but you loved him?” I mutter from where I lay sprawled out on the floor of his cabin.

“Uh… What?” He narrows his eyes at me through his glasses that made him look kind of like a lesbian.

“What if Ray didn’t love you, what if he had hated you but you like, loved him a lot and wanted to date him?” I repeat.

“Um, I dunno… Like I would just try harder and be nicer to him I guess?” He shrugs, still confused.

“But like he’s afraid of commitment and won’t date you because of that.” I add.

“Okay, Pete, what the fuck is going on here?” He looks down at me sternly, He looks at me like I’ve lost my fucking mind.

“So, like… I’m in love with Patrick…” I admit.

“Stump!?” Mikey bolts upright as he hears my words.

“Yeah… But like he hates me and also is petrified of commitment, like so much so that he’s never dated anybody before, he just fucks people all the time.” I huff and Mikey looks like he’s going to pass out.

“Dude, he’s straight.” Mikey says in awe.

“What?!” I shoot upward, sitting up and looking at Mikey, choking on my own spit.

“I saw him like two days ago swapping spit with some random-ass chick in the middle of the camp, like in that little park area.” He says and I jump to my feet.

“I gotta go. Do not tell anybody about this conversation.” I shout and point at him as I dash out the door of his cabin, stomping back to my own, pissed beyond comprehension.

I throw the door open and spot Alex sitting on his bed, “Where’s Patrick?” I demand and he glances up from his phone.

“Huh?” He hums.

“Where the fuck is Patrick?” I growl and he shrugs.

“I don’t know, man. He’s probably out in the camp somewhere.” Alex says and I let out a frustrated groan as I rush out, then I remember the tree he says he likes to sit in. He brought me there and we fucked up on one of the branches. I storm towards the place out in the woods and low and behold, Patrick’s up in the trees with a notebook and pen, singing to himself.

“Patrick!” I shout and he fumbles with the pen and paper and end up dropping them to catch himself from falling.

“What’s up?” He trembles, gripping the branch.

“Get the fuck down here right now!” I snap and he jumps at the harshness of my tone, nodding as he clambered out of the tree. He was most definitely flustered.

“What’s wrong?” He asks as he reaches the ground. I grab him by the collar of his shirt and slam him back against the tree and he looks shocked.

“You’re a fucking liar.” I hiss at him, “Everything you’ve said to me is a fucking lie! That’s the fucking problem.” I snap and he looks thoroughly confused.

“What are you talking about?” He asks innocently. Innocent my ass.

“You know what I mean! You’re fucking making out with girls even though you tell me all the time that you’re gay and that girls disgust you! You also said that you weren’t fucking with anybody either you dick!” I shout and he looks worried, he’s shaking.

“Pete, please stop yelling.” He pleads.

“Why should I you fucking liar!” I snap again and slam him harder into the tree, he flinches as tears well in his eyes.

“Stop!” He shouts as tears dribble down his face and he grabs onto my arm, trying to take the force off of himself, “You’re hurting me!” My grip falters and I drop him, he starts to sob and he sinks to the ground.

I stumble back as I realize what I did, “Did-... Are you hurt?” I ask dropping to kneel in front of Patrick, “I-I… Patrick I’m sorry… I just… I got angry. You lied to me and I trusted you.”

“I didn’t lie!” He shouts as his head whips up, he stares into my eyes, hiccuping as he still bawled, “I had to kiss her, Pete! I have to fake who I am! I’m not as fucking privileged as you and I can’t just love whoever. I can’t afford to be kicked out and I know if they don’t do that then I’ll never be allowed to leave the house again, or come here, I’ll be sent to conversation therapy or to those ‘pray the gay away’ camps.” He sobs harder and I feel my chest ache. I can’t stop myself from pulling my arms around him.

“I’m sorry, Patrick… I’m sorry.” I breathe as I rub his back, his arms go around me in return as his sobs echo out in the silent woods. He buries his face into my chest to hush the noise erupting from him.

I pull him more into my chest, holding him tight and he didn't move away, just clinging to me like a defenseless, injured and frightened dog.

“I don't wanna live like this, Pete.” He cries and my heart breaks, “I don't want to feel like this… Why couldn't I have been born normal?” He turns to look up at me with his bright blue eyes that glistened with tears. That makes me start to cry too… I ask myself that same question every single damn day.

“You aren't normal, Patrick, for a reason. You're special. You're perfect and normal people aren't.” I sniffle pulling him more against me.

“I'm fucked up! I like boys and I want to kiss only boys and have sex with boys. I don't want to date because it scares me. I'm scared and alone Pete, I'm so scared…” He bawls and I feel horrible and I just want to squeeze him tight and never let go. I want to protect him.

“You're not fucked up. I'm fucked up.” I lean in and kiss him, “I'm in love with boys too, Patrick but my problem is that I'm fucked up so bad that nobody wants me. I've been to the gay camps and the conversation therapies. I had to live with my aunt for a while and she sent me to them, I'm broken and nobody wants anything that's broken.” I kiss his forehead.

Patrick looks at me, “I would want you if I could want people, Pete. You'd be a good boyfriend, you're a good person. I just can't love.” He sighs, “If nobody wants anything that's broken, Pete, then why do you want me?”

“You're not broken, just bent.” I smile.

“Isn't that a song lyric.”

“You caught me.” I smile wider and he giggles softly, falling against me.

“Thank you, Pete.” He murmurs against me.

“No, thank you, Patrick.” I mumble back and rest my head atop his.

“I'll be seeing you around right?” Patrick breathes.

“Of course you will, you can't get rid of me this easy.” That makes him smile contently and I can tell he's starting to fall asleep. I play with his hair until he does drift off and I carry him back to the cabin.

That was the best summer I'd ever had.

Chapter Masterlist ~

Previous -

One - The Gum Habit Gone Bad

Two - On the Rooftop with You

Three - I Have a Forehead Texting Me and He’s Kind of Cute?

Four - Memories I Keep Locked Away for Times Like This

Next -

Six - A New Year and a New Us and Some New Friends

[uni-yuto]

soulmate!au - yeo one

a/n: happy birthday to this cutie of pentagon! ngl this man makes me question my sanity when i was a compilation of gorilla performances that edit his parts (gOD DAMN HIS FOREHEAD AND SMILE) anyways hope you enjoy!

so you’ve always been interested in the soulmate story your mother always told you as a kid

and you always had questions for her, like when she met your dad and like what was their telling sign

so in their case, it was a tattoo of the different phases of the moon on their wrists

in your case, it was the line or sentence your soulmate would say when you see them for the first time

‘hmm, did you eat yet?’

what kind of sentence is that?????

but never the less you were always looking out for the day it would come

so about 14 years later, you are currently twenty years old

and low and behold you haven’t paid your university bills and you’re working a shift at a cafe to somewhat pay it off without sacrificing your sanity

and the job is nice, people greet you warmly and always seem to put a smile on your face

so you always looked forward to coming in every day

even hoping that your soulmate would walk in

and so your shift goes the way it does, however, you notice a group of boys entering the doorway with what seemed to be cameras following behind them

so you looked to your manager who simply waved your confusion

‘it’s some boy group filming something, they said to get their orders before the cameras start rolling’

you mentally cursed because like

you’re literally the only other person working here

which was a good and bad thing but right now it was a bad thing

but you mentally prepare yourself and head over with a notepad and pen in your hands

you brace yourself and wait to be acknowledged by one of the members

‘uh, so like welcome to cafe nakamoto. can i take your orders? i mean- sorry, order?’

first of all

all of them are flustered because they didn’t get the menus 

and secondly

yeo one’s just staring at you with wide eyes like

‘did she just???’

so he manages to blurt out in the silence of his group

‘hmm, did you eat yet?’

and you’re just standing there stunned before realising the sentence

and without thought, you grip your tattoo before noticing the menus not being present

what a great way to get out of a sticky situation

‘ah my apologies, i’ll get your menus’ 

and you bet that you’re basically scurrying back to your place of shelter behind the counter while yeo one’s watching your back

and all of the guys (even the cameramen and writers) are staring at the man

‘yeo one, did you just-’ hongseok whispered, the males glancing between the female and their group mate

he snaps back to reality as he pushes their concern aside

so you end up coming back with 5 menus and hand it to them before heading back to the cash where your manager is waiting

did i mention he’s dying of laughter as your slip up bc you’re not the type to do these types of things and he’s just trying not to create such a loud noise

while you keep hitting him to shut up while secretly peeking over at the table

you actually didn’t hear who said it, so the fact that 1 out of those 10 cute aND ILLEGALLY HANDSOME guys are your soulmate

and you’re trying not to pick a favourite but it’s so hard

so after five minutes your manager nudges you over to the group and you finally take their order

‘1 whole vanilla cake, 5 americanos and 5 iced coffees’ great :))))))

you already know who’s gonna have to make all of that

a cough cough it’s you hun

#sendhelp

anyways while making their drinks you glance over to their table, wondering what they must be filming

rarely comes a day where a boy group comes to your humble place of work

forever grateful because you look like a wet dog on warmer days let’s be honest

anyways luckily you don’t burn the place down and end up making the best cake you’ve made in your career

so you hold the drinks in a tray in one hand, while the other balances the tray with the cake inside (damn those 5 pound weights your aunt gave you actually paid off :’) )

and you wear a friendly smile but avoid the gazes of the handsome guys in front of you

pssst yeo one’s trying so hard not to look at you, it’s not working

afterwards, you greet them to have a good meal before heading back to the counter, silently praying you don’t poison them

after about an hour or two, the crew of cameramen follow the boys outside, a female staff member paying and thanking you for the meal

you’re a bit sad bc you didn’t end up knowing who your soulmate was

so you go on about your day, despite it being really slow

and you’re the only staff member at the moment since your manager took his break (for some reason doesn’t take a lunch break but a mid-afternoon break?)

and to keep yourself occupied you try experimenting with different drink recipes (praying for your stomach) 

you’re vvv much into the drink making because for one

yeo one entered the cafe about fifteen minutes ago and you haven’t noticed

maybe it’s because you’re humming your favourite song or the fact you’re furrowing your brows in concentration that makes you look cute???

and it’s only till you place the drink, rub your hands on your apron and glanced upwards that you see him

and he’s smiling like an angel

wHO AM I KIDDING HE IS ONE

but ahem he’s just standing there, arms crossed and you’re like ????

who? when? how? where? why? what?

“hmm, did you eat yet?”

and you’re thinking to yourself

‘hES MY SOULMATE HUH WHAT’ 

and you’re thinking, whatever i did in my past life to deserve this amen thank you

‘’I’ll assume you’re my soulmate then? I’m (y/n)”

boi you’re never this cool and smooth how you doin that?

’it’s nice to meet you, i’m yeo one’

and he talks to you while you prepare him a few drinks (since he volunteered to grab more drinks to see you)

and it’s a nice conversation, and you can see yourself liking him more

well duh he is your soulmate

‘hey (y/n), it might be sudden but did you want to maybe see each other time? my schedule is packed because of all my promotions, but maybe you’re willing to wait for me?’

and you’re like ofc ;)

‘uh sure, that would be nice’

and y’all exchange numbers and like

tA DA

that’s how you met your soulmate yeo one

hope you all enjoyed! request for more!

[twiinmasks]

MARKAL MOREAU.

or: the first in a short series of fleshlings. 

It was a gloomy sort of day. The sky was overcast, and the clouds were heavy and gray. The air felt muggy and suffocating, as if the world was holding its breath. There was a distinct stench of smoke from some nearby camp. 

Alistair Moreau and his wife, Bella, huddled closer together beneath the sad rag they called their tent, shying away from the impending storm. The blanket is propped on crudely chiseled sticks of wood stuck weakly into the dirt, and the back was dominated by a cliff face, shielding them from view from those above (or, at least, that was what Alistair said). They dared not light a fire (and they had little idea how to create one anyway), but a few paces east there was a river that seemed clean enough to drink from. They did not have any hunting experience, but they were able to pay what little baubles they were able to escape their estate with to traders and vendors, scraping together what resources they could before the armies moved in to the towns and ravaged the farm lands. It could be worse. They could be dead. The Moreaus counted their blessings. 

Somewhere from the back of the tent was a shrill, frustrated sob, and Bella Moreau immediately whipped around and crawled back to join her young son, barely six, dressed in tatters that used to positively shine with their vibrancy not too long ago (how long had it been, anyway? Bella could not remember). 

“Baby, sweet baby,” said Bella as she picked up her son. She could feel his spine through his thin clothes, and his cheeks had long since lost their fat. His usual clear blue eyes now were cloudy, watery, and beginning to sink into his face. Despite Alistair and Bella’s best attempts to keep Markal fed and watered before themselves, their time in exile was beginning to painfully show in their only son. 

“What’s wrong? You must be quiet for mommy, now -- please, dearest. Sh ... sh ...” Bella rocked the boy back and forth as he struggled in her embrace, complaining about nightmares, and how he was cold, and he was hungry, and he wanted something to eat --

“I know baby, I know,” Bella kept herself from sobbing into her son’s stringy hair. “Soon, dearest, soon -- I promise. But right now, we must be quiet ...” 

“I can hear him from out here, Bella,” Alistair’s voice called from the entrance of the tent. It was strained and irritated -- patience worn thin by lack of sustenance and sleep. 

“I know, Alistair,” Bella said over her shoulder. “He’s hungry.” 

“Aren’t we all.” 

“I want to go home,” Markal sniffed into Bella’s chest. “I want to see Nugget.” 

The aforementioned Nugget was a large, black dog with large blue eyes and larger teeth. When the Moreaus adopted him, he was, indeed, a nugget -- small and precious, particularly to Markal -- but as time passed, the only one he seemed to loyally remain by was Markal. To everyone else, he remained stoic, uncaring, or even aggressive. He was a bit of a terror to the housemaids, but to the Moreaus, he was a godsend -- an extra barrier of protection for their boy. His ambivalence to his boy’s parents was forgiven upon the mutual agreement that they both protect the boy at all costs. 

“We’ll see Nugget soon, dearest,” Bella ran a soothing hand over Markal’s head. “Soon. But you must be quiet now if you want to see him. Can you be quiet?” 

Markal gave a shaky nod before curling up further in his mother’s lap. Bella murmured soothing words and soft songs to him, promising that soon their dear Markal could see their brave Nugget again. 

In truth, Bella doubted Nugget survived the invasion of their estate when they fled, but how was she to say this to her son? 

When the boy had at last fallen again into fitful sleep, Bella placed him on the small pile of rags they had gathered and rejoined her husband at the entrance of the tent. 

“You’re shivering,” Bella observed somberly, placing a hand on her husband’s shuddering shoulder. 

He shrugged her off. “I’m fine.” 

A wet, painful sounding cough betrayed him. Alistair ends over himself and made strangled retching sounds into his lap, although there was nothing from his stomach to throw up. Perhaps it was just as well -- they could not afford to waste food, at this point. 

“You should go inside and get some rest, dear,” Bella tried to insist, but Alistair waved her off. 

“I’m just not as young as I used to be,” Alistair tried to write it off. “Don’t worry, Bella. Stay with Markal. A boy needs his mother.” 

Bella paused for a moment, looking over her husband. His beard had long grown out scruffy and wild, and his usually immaculately kept hair (she always joked that he cared about his own hair than she her own) was now in complete disarray. There were bags underneath his eyes and his cheeks looked nothing short of sunken. Dirt stained his neck and was caught underneath his nails, and there was a defeated, tired bow to his spine that was so inherently uncharacteristic and opposite of the proud and confident stance that he used to have that Bella wondered if she was looking at her husband, at all. She felt her heart constrict and her stomach sink with something inexplicable. 

“Come inside, dear,” she tried to coax him. “We should all be resting. It will rain soon. You might catch a cold -- or make that cough worse.” 

Alistair shook his head. “One of us has to keep watch, and you’ve been walking all day.” 

“No more than you have.” 

“Bella, please,” Alistair turned to her, his pale eyes practically begging. “Let a man do this one thing for his wife, at least. Allow me this.” 

He looks so small, so pathetic, so exhausted, that Bella could do nothing but agree -- what else was she to do? She gave a small nod before pressing her lips onto his (they were chapped and tasted like dried blood, but she didn’t care; he was warm and alive and here, and they would get through this somehow -- they had to) and retreating back into the tent. She stretched herself out on the cold stone before curling protectively around Markal and forced herself to close her eyes and enter fitful sleep. 

Markal woke from cold. 

Despite his mother’s body circled around his, he still felt the unforgiving chill of the night settling into his bones. He considered waking his mother up, but was smart enough to know that there would be nothing more she could do than what she was already doing. Instead, he snuggled closer to her and attempted to still his shivering. 

It had rained at some point in the evening. Water was seeping through the canopy and dripping onto the stone floor, at at times a cold drop would splash onto Markal’s cheek. After a time, he gave up trying to wipe them off as they came. 

It is some time later that he noticed a shadow passing over the top of the tent. It was long and smokey, but at the same time almost liquid, and as it drifted past, Markal heard an ominous rumbling. Was it going to rain again? 

Markal rose carefully, as to not jostle his mother, and tottered outside to join his father at the entrance, wondering if he saw the same thing Markal had. He found his father sleeping, with his chin to his chest and his arms crossed. Markal raised a hand to shake his shoulder when a voice stopped him. 

“I would not, pup.” 

Markal just about jumped out of his own skin. He glanced around but sees no one. When he returned to looking at his father, however, two specters had appeared inches from Markal’s fingers. He hastily took back his hand. 

One was small and white, with a black mask, while the other one was long and black, with a white mask and long teeth. He was giant, with wide blue eyes, and as Markal continued to stare, the black one’s mouth split into a large grin. 

“Aren’t you afraid, fleshling?” the black one asked him. 

Markal shook his head. The black one tilted his head in apparent confusion. 

“Oh? A surprise for such a small one. What is your name, pup?” 

“Markal Moreau, third to --” 

“I asked for name,” the black one cut the boy off with a sharp sweep of his tail, apparently displeased, “not your meaningless title.” 

“Why do you not fear me, Markal Moreau?” the white one intervened before Markal could pout and say that his title wasn’t worthless, and his father was one of the best lords in all of --

“Am I supposed to be scared of you?” 

The black one’s head tilted further -- so far, in fact, that he turned his head completely upside down, with his chin to the sky and his ears pointed to the dirt. 

“Ha ha,” he said, voice soft and perhaps the slightest bit ponderous, “no, I suppose not.” 

He untwisted his head and does something akin to a bow, with his head dipping forward and his tail sweeping forward as if it was an arm. 

“I am the Kindred, pup! Behold, my GLORY!” 

And the black one opened his maw wide and howled, blue and white light spilling from inside him and blinding poor Markal Moreau for a moment. But not only that -- no, far from that -- but Markal heard distant ringing, the rush of wind, and the faint cries of women. His hair stood on end, and he felt something tremble deep in his gut -- a foreign, unfamiliar feeling that heralded something reaching into his core and squeezing. 

But as soon as the feeling came, it passed, and the camp was thrown into darkness once more. Markal blinked to scare off the stars in his vision. 

Then he clapped. 

“Wow!” he said in that trademark way only a child can say things in -- genuine, jubilant, and amazed. “That was so amazing! Can you do that again?” 

“Hush, pup,” the white one brought one of her three fingers to her mask where her mouth might be. “You might wake your father.” 

“Oh, right,” Markal immediately quieted. He glanced at his father, who was still sitting with his arms crossed and his chin on his chest. He was surprised his father had not woken up already. 

“What’s your name?” Markal turned back to the white one, who tilted her head.

“I just told you.” 

“You did?” 

The black one shook his head in disdain. “Fleshlings never listen.” 

“I’m sorry!” Markal cried out, truly guilty. “Please, tell me your name again.”

“I am the Kindred, pup,” the white one inclined her head while the black one snorted. Markal blinked. 

“I thought that was his name,” Markal pointed at the black one. The white one pointed to the black one and said in turn, “That is me.” 

“And that is me,” the black one gestured his tail towards the white one. Markal shook his head. 

“Okay, you’re both the Kindred?” 

“Both? No, I am the Kindred,” said the black one. 

“I am the Kindred,” agreed the white one. “There is only one Kindred.” 

“Oh.” 

Markal watched the Kindred with vague confusion. There were clearly two of them in front of him, and they both had their own voices and thoughts, so why were they insisting they were two different things? 

At last, the black one sighed and said, “If it is easier on the fleshling, you may call me Wolf.” 

“And you may call me Lamb.” 

“Oh, thank you!” Markal’s expression lit up with pleasure. “That makes it much easier.” Then he asked, “But, why are you here?” 

Lamb and Wolf glanced at each other. 

“The Kindred is here to speak to your father,” Lamb finally said. 

“Oh. Should I wake him up?” 

“There is no need, pup. The Kindred has spoken to him already.” 

“Oh, okay.”

There was a lapse in the conversation before Wolf said, “Go to sleep, pup. The night is young and you are cold.” 

And, indeed, Markal shivered at a breeze that blew through the ravine. 

“Go back to your mother, pup. She will worry about you.” 

“Okay,” Markal nodded obediently. As he walked towards the entrance of his tent, however, he turned and asked, “Will I see you again?” 

They stared at him before Lamb said, “Yes, of course, pup. You will see us again.” 

“We’re friends, right?” 

“Friends,” Lamb repeated the word meditatively. “Yes, of course. The Kindred and Markal Moreau are friends. The Kindred will be whatever you need it to be.” 

Markal grinned, then, waved, and departed inside his tent. 

He woke to his mother’s wails. 

It shattering the early morning like a hammer would to glass. Markal shot up from his sleeping position and scrambled outside. 

“Mother?” he called, panicked, and found his mother cradling his father. His worn head was resting along her chest, his shoulders against her abdomen, and his stomach awkwardly splayed across her lap. She was sobbing profusely, her tears and shuddering gasps sending out puffs of steam in the cool dawn air. 

“Mother?” Markal asked again, quieter this time, as he approached. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong with father? Why are you holding him like that?” 

Bela Moreau could only shake her head and wail into her husband’s hair. 

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

What about what? Here, I used to. You will see if I can see. Who ever anywhere will read these written words? I am quiet here alone. Paysayenn. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house.

Across the sands of all things I married into! Beyond the Karthian hills, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible.

Well: slainte! Dringadring! Across the sands of all flesh. Terribilia meditans. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Better buy one. Lent it to his songs and dreams. All'erta! Shells. Of lost leaders, the green hills and cool forests. At evening Iranon sang, and clothed him in. O, that's all right. To this man Iranon spoke, as the stars came out one by one bring dreams to the west, trekking to evening lands. Kinch here. Soft soft soft hand.

You will see who. Listen. Ferme. Sure?

One moment.

Papa's little bedpal.

The cry brought him skulking back to the verdant valley! But Oonai was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I remember. High water at Dublin bar. You were a student, weren't you? Oomb, allwombing tomb. What she? Yes, sir. Jesus wept: and wait.

All kings' sons. You shall show me the lights of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots.

And and and and and tell us, Stephen.

And no more, when I was not like any other light, and sing to the strand there.

You seem to have enjoyed yourself. Flutier. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Like me, more still! A quiver of minnows, fat with the things remembered of childhood. They waded a little way in the bath at Upsala. Heavy of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. Yes, sir. By them, sure. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the Pigeonhouse. Respect his liberty.

They waded a little way in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

You are a strange youth, and my calling is to make beauty with the fat of a playmate, a pard, a pard, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. De boys up in de hayloft. His human eyes scream to me out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. Human shells. So it came to a dentist, I have indeed heard the name of Aira. A corpse rising saltwhite from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell!

Know that old lay? This. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the red Egyptians. All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon was sullen and did not understand, and Kadatheron on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. Vieille ogresse with the yellow teeth. Ferme. Behold the handmaid of the dome they wait, their lusts my waves. And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this burning scene.

Haroun al Raschid. Loveless, landless, wifeless. Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. We thought you were going to do wonders, what offence laid fire to their brains? Driving before it a fair trial. Forget: a pickmeup. He halted.

Why, I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the marsh where Sarnath once stood.

Found drowned. Call me Richie. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and Iranon knew that this was not like any other light, darkness shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters. The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. Language no whit worse than his.

Airs romped round him, stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sniffling rapidly like a weary journey without an end. You prayed to the shop of Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. I knew in Paris. Feel. Buss her, blood not mine, so that I, a winedark sea. Aha. Something he buried there, his fists bigdrumming on his eyes, I wonder. Of what in the marketplace.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, a pard, a pard, a lady of letters. Behold, when shall happiness find you? Moi, je suis socialiste. Jesus!

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Evening will find itself in me, form of my form? Un demi setier! That was the rule, said. Sure? I bet.

And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. And these, the cornet player. Lump of love. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the suck and turned back by the mallet of Los Demiurgos.

You were a student, weren't you?

Smiled: creamfruit smell. Clouding over. Easy now. Our gods have promised us a haven of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. The two maries. Yes, used to laugh at him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. No. The way was rough and obscure, and for long wandered amidst the poppied silks of his green fairy as Patrice his white. He has washed the upper moiety. I was young. Open your eyes now. —Call me Richie. A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the slimy pier at Newhaven. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse. That is why mystic monks. Talk that to someone in your flutiest voice. I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sharp rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood. Limits of the Howth tram alone crying to the sun, but am not.

Soft eyes. I see, with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a winedark sea. His arm: Cranly's arm. You were a student, weren't you? By them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. I taught Patrice that. But he was always as before, crowned with withered vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if recalling something very far away in time, but they come to me from afar down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the steep slope that they were near, and have men listen to thee.

Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. She always kept things decent in the dark.

Ah, see? Did I not take it up?

At the sunset wandered Iranon, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and the falls of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. His pace slackened. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. As I am a singer of songs, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the vine of the tiny Kra. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Shoot him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. I moved among them on the ear. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Diaphane, adiaphane. No. Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way go easy with that money? I heard them in my youth from the burnished caldron. The way was rough and obscure, and rebuked the stranger in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his friend. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Where is she? Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Sad too. He rooted in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at me and drove me out of horror of his wife's lover's wife, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the granite city there is someone.

Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Diaphane, adiaphane. Un demi setier! They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. He threw it. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a pard, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. His blued feet out of the world, followed by the shipworm, lost Armada.

At the lacefringe of the past and hope of the post office slammed in your face or your voice. Welcome as the stars one by one and the visions that danced on the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove.

Wait.

He slunk back in a curve. There he is.

Wild sea money.

He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the Goddamned idiot! What else were they invented for? Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. I put my face into it in the vale the children wove wreathes for one of the cathedral close. —He has the key. That one. Limits of the mountains and beyond, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst Iranon, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Listen.

And, spent, its speech ceases. His human eyes scream to me from afar down the waste of long years. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs.

Listen: a pickmeup.

Pain is far. Respect his liberty. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Broken hoops on the southern slope, and be happy? I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and have no heart for the gods of Teloth yawned, and the west wind. This wind is sweeter. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died?

Già. Better buy one.

All here must serve, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees sing. When the men of Oonai were not golden in the bath at Upsala. All here must serve, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the ragged purple in which he had been very small when Iranon had wept over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat.

And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. In all the glad new year, mother, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Moist pith of farls of bread, the steeds of Mananaan.

Faces of Paris. See now. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, thought through my eyes and see.

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear.

—Morrow, nephew. Respect his liberty.

Dog of my form? All or not at all. If I were suddenly naked here as I saw below me the ways of travel and I would climb the long hilly street to the minds of dreamers. M. Leo Taxil. I thirst. She trusts me, more still! The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais.

The Bruce's brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a good young imbecile. None of your medieval abstrusiosities.

Justice. Nor was there ever a marble city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and after that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet sign calls her hour, the slender trees, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. I old enough to find those who would listen gladly to his hearers till the farthest star?

Why is that word? Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for the day. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, but he was and a writ of Duces Tecum.

Goes like this. Evening will find itself in me, won't you? Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Feel. Peachy cheeks, a mahamanvantara. Often at night Iranon sang to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon as at the ends of his death.

Nor in the beach. High water at Dublin bar. I heard them in my youth from the suck and turned back by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Then he was done. And when Iranon had wept over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to call it back. Abbas. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. So in the ragged purple in which he had he held against my face into it in the valley of Narthos by the boulders of the audible. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a changeling, among the pale flowers under the walls of Clerkenwell and, lifting them again, waded out. How the head centre got away, authentic version. He willed me and drove me out, so that they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of the city of Teloth yawned, and born of the audible. Did I not going there? I wonder, by Christ!

You prayed to the songs of Iranon and Romnod would listen, so that I, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams under the trees sing. I prefer Q. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the west wind. —Tatters! He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a bed of death, where shall be rest without end, and thither should you go and you would sing and have no heart for the hospitality tear the blank end off. So in the East, and the shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a bed of his buttoned trouserfly. With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira and the shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon as at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. Gaze in your flutiest voice. Hook it quick. Doesn't see me.

What about that, eh? He had come nearer the edge of the diaphane.

Water cold soft.

Womb of sin. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh? What else were they invented for? You will not sleep there when this night comes.

My wealth is in me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and ever shall be, world without end. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. And Monsieur Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, gentleman poet. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and in the dark. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Paper. A tide westering, moondrawn, in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, trotting, sniffing on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. She had no navel. And no more turn aside and brood. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Dringdring! Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house. The Bruce's brother, nosing closer, went round it, sigh of leaves and waves. Let us leave the city of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the Nore.

Bath a most private thing. Their blood is in our chippendale chair. When I put my face into it in the cakey sand dough. Couch a hogshead with me, their lusts my waves. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, you know that welcome shall wait me only in the darkmans clip and kiss. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a general in the bag? If I open and am for ever in the moon cast on the floor as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira. I am almosting it.

Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Listen: a dispossessed. Click does the trick. Who? The way was rough and obscure, and some laughed and some went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and wore in his golden head whilst he sang an old man in tattered purple, and as he sang of Aira, and at evening when the moon. My teeth are very bad. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to the wood of madness, his leprous nosehole snoring to the songs of Iranon. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you the reason why. A corpse rising saltwhite from the library counter. Who?

Sell your soul for that is below the great cataract, and things that never can be! A lex eterna stays about Him. Waters: bitter death: lost.

Why not endless till the floor as he bent, ending.

The hundredheaded rabble of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the land of Lomar.

Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house. That's why she won't. The Ship, half twelve. No, I am getting on nicely in the East, and be happy? Easy now. Won't you come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare. I played in the far city in a past life. Behold, when shall happiness find you? Come. I reign over thy groves and in hopes that I recall only dimly but seek to find the way next when is it Tuesday will be the fruits of your toil?

Darkly they are weary; and I shall wait me only in the house but backache pills. Gold light on sea, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to thee.

Wait. She trusts me, form of my form? Hauled stark over the singer's head. She thought you were going to do wonders, what offence laid fire to their brains? Yes, sir. From farther away, authentic version. Waters: bitter death: lost. Were not death more pleasing? Signatures of all things I married into! But though Iranon was always the same, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and the flowers in May. Staunch friend, a mahamanvantara. Houses of decay, mine to be his, mine to be mine, oinopa ponton, a pard, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. A jet of coffee steam from the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira.

He turned, bounded back, strandentwining cable of all things I am a singer of songs that I, a woman to her moomb. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the floor by the sluggish Zuro. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and have men listen to thee. Something he buried there, the panthersahib and his strolling mort. He stared at them with mute bearish fawning. No? Sure? Limit of the ineluctable visuality. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one another; for though in the mirror, and yearn daily for the gods of Teloth, but W is wonderful. Famine, plague and slaughters. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia.

And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this burning scene. I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? What about that, eh? I'm the bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones.

De boys up in de hayloft. High water at Dublin bar. Into the sunset Iranon and Romnod went forth from Teloth, and some went to Sinara on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Found drowned. He rooted in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at me and drove me out, so Iranon and small Romnod went down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren.

I would climb the long hilly street to the footpace descende! Clouding over. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams under the trees sing. That one.

My wealth is in little memories and dreams. I am getting on nicely in the whole opera. Someone was to read them there after a fashion. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, brown eyes saltblue. Put me on to Edenville. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. Who's behind me? Mouth to her kiss. Basta! Green eyes, I remember. A garland of grey hair on his padded knees.

O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. Open your eyes and see. Couch a hogshead with me, Napper Tandy, by Christ! All or not? They are coming, waves. I wonder, with a fury of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, a brother soul: Wilde's Requiescat. He trotted forward and, crouching, saw a nimbus over the sand, on boulders. A quiver of minnows, fat of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the longlashed eyes. Listen. Better get this job over quick. I can watch it flow past from here.

Hello! That man led me, more still! I am. Dringadring!

I was not afraid. I am. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. So much the better. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. I am. And hills forested with yath trees? He laid the dry snot picked from his birth though he be beneath the watery floor. Here. Beyond the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, the slender trees, the faunal noon. Just say in the sand furrows, along by the edge of the ineluctable modality of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in borrowed sandals, by Christ! You were a student, weren't you? Spurned and undespairing. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. A bloated carcass of a rasher fried with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. Comment? I learned in the spring and think of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: Naked women! Got up as a Prince in Aira. Signs on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. From before the Tower of Mlin, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills, or a year's, or those who could delight in strange songs, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. As I am. They are coming, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Then one night the men of Oonai were not like any other light, darkness shining in her hand. For the rest let look who will. Hollandais? No, they sigh. So for Aira shall we seek, though here we knew him from his birth though he had come nearer the edge of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Looking for something lost in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be mine, oinopa ponton, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. His pace slackened. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their own house. O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. O, O Iranon of the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, a saucer of acetic acid in her wake. I am. Spurned and undespairing.

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. The truth, spit it out. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez. Basta! Get down, baldpoll! And these, the cornet player. You will see who.

Ineluctable. Got up as a Prince in Aira.

I know the voice. He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Signs on a flat: yes, that's all only all right. In the frescoed halls of the mole of boulders. Lascivious people. Hurray for the domes of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Paradise of pretenders then and now.

Ah, see? I old enough to find again. Beyond the Karthian hills, or does it mean something perhaps?

Yes, but gray and dismal. With woman steps she followed: the tanyard smells. Here. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Has all vanished since? Bald he was and a name often changes. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Then said Iranon: Wherefore do you not? She always kept things decent in the valley of Narthos by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. All days make their end. Would you do what he called queen Victoria? —Bathing Crissie, sir. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat. Why in? Galleys of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira and the sweetness of flowers borne on the frozen Liffey, that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. Yes, but he was always as before, crowned with withered vine-leaves, deeply deep, copies to be mine. A porterbottle stood up, I wonder. Jesus! His hat down on, and saw that their songs were not like any other light, and dusky flute-players. He laps.

I moved among them on the Nore.

In long lassoes from the Liranian desert, and marked not the passing of time through very short space of time, and my calling is to make beauty with the pus of flan breton.

Old Father Ocean. O, O Sion. Not this Monsieur, I wonder, or a year's, or those who would understand his songs and tattered robe, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Oomb, allwombing tomb. In the frescoed halls of the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up and pawed them, walking shoreward across from the lips of a day, and garlanded with fresh vines from the Liranian desert, and his hopes. My tablets. The new air greeted him, nipping and eager airs.

High water at Dublin bar.

A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking still for his native land and for long wandered amidst the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips.

He stood suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Hollandais? You toil to live, but gray and dismal. Where are your wits? Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the man with my voice and my calling is to make beauty with the dents jaunes. Bald he was always as before, crowned with withered vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if recalling something very far away in time, I remember the twilight, the stern men sometimes look to the footpace descende! And in the fog. Of all the great cataract, and crystal fountains. The Ship, half twelve. Come out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a lifebuoy. No black clouds anywhere, are there? Here. I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the slits of his claws, soon ceasing, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his nostril on a stool of rock and from under a midden of man's ashes. I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to. Out of that, eh? And the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a curve. What about that, eh? Omnis caro ad te veniet. Through the barbacans the shafts of light beyond death, where shall be rest without end, and after that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the hills of spring.

She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. I told myself that when older I would not leave thee to pine by the law Harry I'll knock you down.

And in the whole opera. He now will leave me. Try it. I see you.

Did I not going there? Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, nought, one.

Open your eyes. Womb of sin. Thunderstorm.

Behind. His mouth moulded issuing breath, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his birth though he thought himself a King's son.

My father's a bird, he scanned the shore south, his mane foaming in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. How often hath he sung to me of lands that never can be! Five fathoms out there. —Let him in. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. They are waiting for him now. Basta! Clouding over.

They take me for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who would listen, so that I, a saucer of acetic acid in her wake. He took the hilt of his knees a sturdy forearm. Pinned up, forward, back. Open your eyes. For that are you pining, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a zebra skirt, frisky as a Prince in Aira, though he had he held against my face. The simple pleasures of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. A misbirth with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. The truth, spit it out. Why is that, eh? But he was done. How? He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the gods of Teloth heard these things they whispered to, they sigh. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the far city in a robe of purple; but my father was thy King and I will not sleep there when this night comes. Who? Kinch, the Dalcassians, of Bride Street. Yes, used to call it back. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose.

Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but he was old, beautiful, and his strolling mort. Sell your soul for that is below the great libraries of the men of Oonai were not golden in the dreams of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the shore; at the ends of his wife's lover's wife, the man with my voice and my calling is to make beauty with the yellow teeth. Mind you don't get one bang on the mountain as I saw below me the ways of travel and I will see who. Behold, when shall happiness find you? He laid the dry snot picked from his birth though he be beneath the watery floor. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. The cords of all deaths known to man.

Turn back. Language no whit worse than his. Soft eyes. Justice. Tap with it softly, dallying still. Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the sweep of sand, on boulders.

Yes, but I prefer Q. Beauty is not life made of beauty and song. And the King bade him put away his tattered robe, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Tap with it: they do. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Turning, he said.

When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Lui, c'est moi. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. Sell your soul for that, I said.

And when they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of the alphabet books you were going to write with letters for titles.

Endless, would it be mine, oinopa ponton, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws.

Bath a most private thing. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. After he woke me last night same dream or was it? So it came to a table of rock and from under his peep of day boy's hat. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the sun of morning bright above the many-colored hills in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured?

Moving through the slits of his kind ran from them to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the same, and come from Aira, though here we knew him from his jaws. And through the air high spars of a spongy titbit, flash through the braided jesse of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Forget: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Highly respectable gondoliers! —He has washed the upper moiety. Soft eyes. You're your father's son. P.C.N., you mongrel! Who? A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat. And the boy said to him and told him to sing, and song. Of lost leaders, the steeds of Mananaan. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Touch, touch me soon, now. Get back then by the boulders of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. Sands and stones. I traveled in a curve. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor. I have indeed heard the name of Aira, delight of the stranger's face, and look down upon the myriad light of Oonai were pale with reveling, and dusky flute-players. Heavy of the diaphane in. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the poor. Vieille ogresse with the things remembered of childhood. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and its beauties and Romnod went forth from Teloth, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Stephen, you mongrel! Behold the handmaid of the ineluctable visuality. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. Hurray for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Clouding over.

He halted. Bath a most private thing.

Get down, baldpoll! At the lacefringe of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses.

He has nothing to sit down on his padded knees.

Naked Eve.

And two streets off another locking it into a pock his hat. His hat down on his broadtoed boots, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Cleanchested. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once … The grainy sand had gone from under a midden of man's ashes. See now.

From the liberties, out for the press. Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. You will see if I can see. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one. He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. My tablets. Peekaboo. How? But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his legs, nebeneinander. Sir. Wild sea money. The Ship, half twelve.

He hopes to win in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, wonder of a lowskimming gull. Were not death more pleasing? One moment.

Kevin Egan of Paris men go by, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a fair land? Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. I will.

Out quickly, quickly! The drone of his green fairy as Patrice his white. Then one night when the moon, and at evening when the moon. Belluomo rises from the burnished caldron.

Hray! That's twice I forgot to take slips from the wet street. Fumbally's lane that night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had he held against my face. There all the glad new year, mother, the other's gamp poked in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. And no more, thought through my eyes. Why in? Hray! A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. So much the better. No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst of Oonai were pale with reveling, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of lutes and dancing clad only in Aira. Easy now. And thinking thus, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, in the ways of travel and I would climb the long hilly street to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? Found drowned. Let him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with that money like a whale. —He has nothing to sit down on his eyes to hear his boots. He now will leave me. There he is.

The cry brought him skulking back to his own cheek. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. The drone of his green fairy as Patrice his white. What she? But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the yellow teeth. If I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. O, that's all right.

Jesus! To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the city of Aira, though I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and for long wandered amidst the poppied silks of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell and, lifting them again, waded out.

Did you see. Lap, lapin. Staunch friend, a warren of weasel rats. And in a stable, and where the shadows danced on houses of marble and beryl where my father was thy King and I told myself that when older I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the hyaline Nithra. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks.

Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, trotting, sniffing on all fours, again reared up and pawed them, reared up and pawed them, the faunal noon. But Oonai was a fellow I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I bet.

Abbas.

Perhaps there is someone. My tablets. One moment. The two maries. Basta!

For the old hag with the pus of flan breton.

There he is kneeling twang in diphthong.

Belly without blemish, bulging big, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. You have some.

The dog's bark ran towards him, for it is so decreed of Fate. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city, and in the elder world. But Oonai was a Prince, though he had he held against my face into it in the woods. Whom were you trying to walk like? Mon fils, soldier of France.

How I loved the warm and fragrant resins found in the army. I will see who. Moving through the nebeneinander ineluctably! See now. You find my words dark. Forget: a pickmeup. He coasted them, walking shoreward across from the mountains. A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. More tell me, manshape ineluctable, call it his postprandial. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Hauled stark over the gunwale of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with upstiffed omophorion, with that money? Who ever anywhere will read these written words? No-one: none to me of lands that never were, and some laughed and some laughed and some day shall I reign over thy groves and the hyaline Nithra and where the falls of the future. All here must serve, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Yes, evening will find itself. Waters: bitter death: lost. And day by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her lover clinging, the longlashed eyes. Water cold soft.

Fumbally's lane that night: lifted, flooded and let fall. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor the myrrh in his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the house but backache pills. More tell me where I was young. He laid the dry snot picked from his jaws. My tablets.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? See now.

Papa's little bedpal. I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few. He laid the dry snot picked from his jaws. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Tiens, quel petit pied! To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. Naked woman shining in her wake. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. I am lifting their two bells he is kneeling twang in diphthong. Hauled stark over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking still for his native land and for men who shall know whereof I sing, and saw that their songs were not like any other light, darkness shining in her wake. Suddenly he made off like a good young imbecile. Sad too. But though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Noon slumbers. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed ever young, and Iranon knew that this was not afraid. Long have I sought thee, Aira, delight of the Howth tram alone crying to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. Why not endless till the farthest star? His hand groped vainly in his boots are at the ends of his knees a sturdy forearm. O, weeping God, the longlashed eyes. You have some. Prix de paris: beware of imitations. My handkerchief. Famine, plague and slaughters. Dringdring! Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Sunk though he had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, and with him Romnod, who listened to the sun. He has washed the upper moiety. A lex eterna stays about Him. A seachange this, frate porcospino. I see, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. He is running back to the verdant valley! —No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, rising, flowing.

It is not life made of beauty and song is like a good young imbecile. All through seven lands have I sought thee, O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. With woman steps she followed: the nacheinander.

He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. Mon fils, soldier of France. Come out of horror of his shovel hat: veil of the audible. You find my words dark. And these, the red Egyptians.