#god eats my heart like a pomegranate in front of me

[candlesoul]

[rottenpear]

poet.inthemaking

[aleksanderro2]

three drawings from a really awful day that ended with a friend holding my hand from far away

[velvetporcelain]

everyday I wake up and smoke my silly little cigarette while god eats my heart like a pomegranate in front of me.

-x

[saturnsfavouritemoon]

Everyday I wake up and drink my silly little coffee while God eats my heart like a pomegranate in front of me.

[eatyouravocados]

every day I wake up and drink my silly little coffee while god eats my heart like a pomegranate in front of me

[ishalldreamforevermore]

“Every day I wake up and drink my silly little coffee while God eats my heart like a pomegranate in front of me.”

[thatmissquin]

"....every day I wake up and drink my silly little coffee while God eats my heart like a pomegranate in front of me....."

[wendel-luxes-worldly-wondering]

They Spoke For A Few Minutes

The fellow in the line in front of old man Bobby Joe Grayson was wearing an orange robe. At least thats what he thought.

“Hey you!” Bobby Jo says to the dark skinned man. “Why you wearing a robe like that out in public.”

The man in the orange robe is purchasing some fruits, they sat in a little basket on his arm. Apples. Grapes. Coconuts. Oranges. Pomegranates. He turns around and looks at the fellow. Without hesitation he says, “I am a monk.”

“A monk?” Says the older. “Like one of them there. Om, boodi-hoodi… people.”

“Well—yes, we do use the word ‘aum’ often. But it is a little different than that.”

“I thought you wasn’t s’posed to be eating and stuff… why you got them there fruits there?”

The monk looks at him, “Well we do eat, but, you see—I am dressed in my traditional attire for ceremonies.” He points to the fruits. “And the fruits are for a funeral.”

The old man looks at him with a stone cold stare, “Oh…”

“The fruits all represent parts of life… see,” he pulls out an apple. “Apples represent knowledge and immortality.”

“Grapes define a community. A gathering. A sense of unity for the family and friends of the loved one.”

“Coconuts represent purity, nourishment and rebirth.” He holds the large coconut and simply shakes it.

“Orange, or really most citrus—represents wealth. Prosperity in the afterlife and in the next."

He then grabs a pomegranate. “In our religion, we also believe people must escape a cycle of death and rebirth. And if you break this open, you see seeds. The seeds could also represent fertility.”

“So you’re telling me—you use all these fruits and just waste them at a funeral?”

“Well I wouldn’t say that we waste them. Our culture has a lot of imagery and has a meaning for most anything. Our folks grew up connected with the land, and have had a lot to say about it all.

That is why we have so many connections to things—statues, flowers, fruits. Nature itself.” The monk has begun to put his fruits on the belt.

“Welcome to E-Z Mart…” says the less than amused cashier.

Bobby Joe stares at the man and says… “That sounds like a load of bologna.”

“I am sorry you think that…” says the monk.

“I am sorry you think that too…” says Bobby Joe. “Do you know—if you died tonight—would you go to heaven or hell?”

“Well, sir—I do not believe in a heaven or hell. I believe in liberation—nirvana.”

“Do you know if you died tonight? If you would go to heaven or hell?”

“Again—sir—”

“Don’t sir me… show some respect.”

The monk looks at him with a bit of a questioning tone, but then steps back and reassesses.

“That will be $24.87.” Says the Cashier

“Yes—just give me one second.” Says the monk.

“Yeah... There is no one behind me, you can turn the light off for a second.”

The person behind the register sighs and clicks the light off. They start playing on their phone.

The monks speaks. “I do not believe in heaven. I believe that ‘God’, as you would say, has called me to fulfill my duties on earth, as a monk. To help others learn and connect with their God in a deeper more profound way.”

“I would ask you to bow your head. You don’t have to say it out loud.” Old man Bobby Joe says. “Pray—‘Dear God… I believe that your only son was sent to die on the cross to forgive me of my sins.”

“I don’t feel comfortable doing that, sir.”

“Just do it!”

The monk bows his head, and pretends to mumble the words the old man says.

“I would ask you Jesus Christ… to come into my heart and save me. Cleanse and make me whole again. In your holy name, amen. There you go, brother. You’re saved. You are in God’s arms now.”

The monk smiles and pays the person at the register. “You have a blessed and fortunate day.” He says to the person at the counter and turns around, saying it again to Bobby Joe.

(The fruit symbolism is inspired by various Eastern spiritual traditions but is not a precise representation of any specific belief system.)

“You too, brother in christ!” Says Bobby Joe.

The monk just nods and walks out the store.

[honeysidesarchived]

every time i see a new prompt list, no matter how little i have accomplished on my inbox, i am overwhelmed with the pavlovian urge to reblog in the slim hope my will to write will return from the war

[candlesoul]

"i need to be so much more than i am i need to do so much more than i can"

[rottenpear]

poet.inthemaking

[givemearmstopraywith]

every day i wake up and drink my silly little coffee while God eats my heart like a pomegranate in front of me

[limematcha]

every day i wake up and drink my silly little coffee while god eats my heart like a pomegranate in front of me

source @givemearmstopraywith

[skzsauce01]

Hymn to Myself

Anniversary Request Special

Synopsis: The Goddess of Spring tells a mortal the story of her abduction by the King of the Underworld. Follows the Homeric Hymn to Demeter.

Warning: kidnapping

Word Count: 2.6k

Pairing: fem Persephone!reader x Hades!Hyunjin

Dear mortal, listen closely, for I have deemed you worthy to hear my tale. You have danced in my name, burned offerings to me. You shall be rewarded for your worship. Lend me your ear now, and perhaps I will lend a hand in the future.

You know me by many names — The Maiden, The Younger, the Goddess of Spring — but today I will be the Queen of the Dead. There is no need to be so frightened. Your time has not come yet, nor will I be the one to ferry you to the Underworld, as you well know. Trembling and bowing your head for mercy will serve you no purpose but do as you like.

You have heard the tale, I am sure. The Dark-Haired One seizes a maiden and makes her his bride, as her mother, holy Night-Mare of the golden double-axe, ceases the earth’s harvest in her despair. The story you may have heard prior is my mother’s version, without the details of me in the Underworld.

Like most stories, it begins with the Cloud Collector, my father. Seeing that the King of the Underworld had no queen and that no goddess or nymph desired him, he offered him a bride, the flowerfaced daughter of the Corn-Mother. The King of the Dead accepted.

As you may have guessed, I did not know about this arrangement. The nymphs I surrounded myself with then, daughters of the Titan God of Rivers, did not either, yet they braided my hair and wove flowers in. Roses, crocuses, and hyacinths entangled with violets and irises to make a crown of spring. I still remember the way they fussed over me, singing songs and pulling at my scalp. I hated it. I only wanted to pick my blossoms. Once they had finished, I walked through the meadow, leaving them behind, gathering as many of the flowers I could into my arms.

Then I spotted a narcissus, its center as radiant as the sun and its petals the color of fresh milk. Its honey-sweet fragrance filled the sky and enchanted me. I approached it with both hands, ready to hold the bud to my nose, when the earth beneath me broke open.

A golden chariot drawn by sable-black horses leapt out, and I was snatched by the gloomy Lord. I cried out for my father, he of the thunderbolt, but he was the one who promised me, and I did not know that then. The King of the Dead had me in his grasp. He refused to let go. But still I cried a piercing scream, begging the pantheon of gods seated at Olympus to help, pleading Lord Helios in his own golden chariot to come down and save me. No one heard a thing when the chariot descended back into the earth.

And when we finally entered the Underworld, my voice had gone hoarse, my body limp. The flowers I clutched to my chest were the only remnants of the sunlit earth I had, but their petals had scattered into the wind and their stems wilted in the dark. The Dark-Haired One kept his arm on me, making sure I would not be able to flee. The shades wandered in the fields below us, their moans a constant hum.

Soon we stopped in front of his palace, a cold and imposing labyrinth with a locked gate reaching to the sky. A three-headed dog stood guard, saliva dripping from its maw. The King stepped off first and offered his hand to me, but I remained frozen on the chariot. It was still warm from the sun, and I wanted to soak in every last piece I could. The hound growled and lowered its center head to sniff me when I latched onto the side, even as the Lord of the house tried to drag me off.

“Leave me be,” I cried, pushing at his chest. “My father will punish you for this. He is the king of the heavens, and you will be struck with his bolt.”

“At the behest of the Thunderer, you are now my wife. Come, my queen, into your new home.”

I had no tears left, and I mutely followed him, keeping my eyes on the back of his wine-dark cloak. He led me through the gates, the corridors of his palace, all the way to the throne room. Two chairs stood next to each other, both as black as the horses and the sky. His was obsidian, etched with bone-white carvings and lined with onyx gems. The other, the ebony one intertwined with asphodel and pomegranates, belonged to me now.

“Are you pleased?” he asked.

I said nothing, for the fight in me had died along with the flowers I left between the paws of the hound.

“Are you frightened?”

Again, no sound left me. He made me sit on my throne, and I did with my head hung low. He cradled my face, and I shut my eyes. If he desired a kiss, then he could take it. I was a wife now, to the king of the Underworld too, and I would let my husband put his mouth on mine.

“Tired,” he declared after some time. “I will bring you ambrosia and nectar, so that you may recover.”

He brought the divine foods to me, but I did not eat. He tried to make conversation, but I did not speak. The scent of the asphodels and pomegranates were suffocating, and the musk of death coated the air untainted by natural fragrance. The thick slabs of wood underneath me were unyielding, and so was I. The Dark-Haired One was dismayed.

“What is it that you require?”

“I require that I be returned to my mother and to the earth.”

He smiled. “I have all of the riches of the earth. See what I have made for you.”

Humans called him the Wealthy One on occasion, and I understood that it was not merely a euphemism when he presented my crown to me: a golden-leaved garland with apple-red rubies the size of hen’s eggs and emeralds as vivid as moss, not a hint of death clouding its elegance. It was magnificent and befitting for a queen of spring. He undid the nymphs’ braids that still remained in my hair and placed the crown on my head.

“Are you happy now?” he asked.

“I will never be happy until I see the sun again.”

He frowned and left me alone on my throne, hoping I would change my mind. The ambrosia and nectar laid on the moonlight-silver tray. They glistened and glowed, their dangerously sweet scent enveloping the room, doing their best to entice me. Instead, I sat as rigid as a tree for days, languishing in my misery. Color faded from my features, and I looked like the very image of the Queen of the Dead, with my soulless eyes and ashen skin.

Day and night, I remained there. The Lord of the House was patient, as his realm was eternal and as I was immortal. He brought gifts to try to sway me: diamond birds perching on bronze branches, amethyst crocus bouquets with delicate sprigs of roses the colors of ripe peaches. I left them on the ground. They reminded me too much of what I no longer had. The treasures around me grew, but he persisted with his prizes and his attempts at conversation.

“There are many souls arriving today,” he would say. “How lovely,” I would reply.

“What do you think of the sky here?” he would ask, and I would tell him, “It is like you.”

“Would you like to see Cereberus again? I think he liked you,” to which I would answer, “I am content here.”

It was his offer to visit the Asphodel Meadows that drew me out of my fog.

We took his chariot, golden and gleaming as before. This time, he held out a hand for me, and I accepted. The three-headed dog at the entrance of the palace whined when I did not pat his heads like his master. The flowers I left as a peace offering earlier were gone, not even a broken stem lingering. I could only imagine that they were played with and eaten.

“He does like you,” the King whispered. He placed one arm around my shoulders as he held the reins with the other. I shrunk as much as I could, burying my nose in my hair so not to smell the death radiating off of him.

“Yes, I suppose he does.”

We stopped in one of the many fields, the asphodel ghostly white and fluttering in the breeze. The shades kept their distance when I stepped off the chariot and into the flowers. My bare feet touched the Underworld dirt, my ankles brushed the stalks as I roamed the meadow like I did that fateful day, plucking the prettiest blooms from their roots. The Dark-Haired One followed closely behind, and I did my best to keep my eyes on the iron sky as I wandered through more of the fields. Lone petals circled in the wind, adorning the false flowers of my crown with themselves. I thought about the nymphs — their songs, their chatter, their life — and nearly wept. Then I thought about my poor mother, with the beautiful garlands in her hair, finding no trace of me among the meadow, and I dropped to the ground.

“There is no need to cry,” said the Dark-Haired One softly. “The shades will not hurt you.”

“I want to go home,” I replied in-between my gasps. I thought that picking flowers would somehow soothe me, but they only pained my heart. “Please, let me return home.”

He held me up, and I saw up close the famed black locks that framed his face. “Home,” he smiled.

My spirits soared, and I clamored onto his chariot, eager to see the wispy clouds and splendid sun again. But I had deceived myself. For the Queen of the Underworld, the palace was home.

The throne was too far for my limp body to retire to, so he set me down upon a funeral couch. There, I laid and stared out the window at the vast number of souls inhabiting the fields. He brought me ambrosia and nectar once more, a feeble attempt that even he knew was wasted.

He ordered entertainers to sing and dance for me, but I stared at them like one of the many skulls carved on his throne.

However, my prayers were soon answered months later. The mighty Messenger of the Gods, with his golden wand, came and relayed my father’s message: I was to be returned to my mother, for she was wrathful against the gods. The Lord smiled and did not disobey the Thunderer’s orders.

“Go to your mother,” he said to me, “for I am not an unseemly husband. But you are my queen, and all those who do not perform your rituals with reverence, all those who do not perfectly burn offerings for you, will be punished.”

I did not care about those things. Still, I rejoiced and leapt from the couch with liveliness, my crown falling to the ground in my eagerness. To feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, to see the vibrant earth, to be with my mother — those were what mattered to me.

“Before you leave, I ask that you try the Underworld’s fruit,” he said, holding out a pomegranate. “As a blessing to us from the Queen of the Dead.”

“You have been nothing but kind to me, so I will,” I told him. I ate four of the seeds, red as the rubies on my Underworld crown and sweet as honey, before I could tolerate my impatience no longer.

The King’s chariot was already drawn with his sable-black horses. The dog eyed me curiously as I got onto the chariot with the Immortal Guide rather than his master. The messenger took the reins, and we ascended to the upper world. The taste of the pomegranate still coated my tongue when the earth cracked open.

We burst forth like a new sprout. The nymphs came out from the sea and flocked around, fussing like they did before. This time, I did not mind. I let them pull at my clothing and let them weave fragrant flowers in my hair.

My mother, with a dark robe, soon arrived. She saw me, stretched her arms out, and I ran into them, breathing in her familiar scent. She stroked my hair, all while murmuring in my ear about how I was safe now, how happy she was. I was happy too. I recounted my tale to her in a frenzy, words crashing into one another like the churning tides. We stayed together, roaming the fields, soaking in the sun and earth I had missed. I danced in the streams, playing with my nymphs in celebration, for I was home.

It was later that I learned that I was bound to the Underworld, having eaten the pomegranate seeds. I left with a heavy heart and arrived to the expectant Lord, smiling with his brows.

“You tricked me,” I said. I would not weep; I could endure my time here.

“It was a request you accepted,” he said as he strode to me with my crown. He adorned me with it, and I let him brush the loose tendrils from my face. “Welcome home, my queen.”

In the beginning, it was a partial home.

I left the palace as often as I could to roam among the asphodels and the shades. The shades grew acquainted with my presence and bowed to me, moaning cries of worship in that strange tongue of theirs. I learned to feed the horses with sweet pomegranate seeds to entice them into being obedient, and the golden chariot of the King became one of my possessions. I stayed away from him, for I still felt betrayed.

Despite my frigidness, he adored me like no other. The entertainers seemed to be a constant at his court now that I present. He offered to dance with me, to which I rejected every time. He played knucklebones with me on the rare occasion I was receptive. I suspected he let me win on several occasions in an attempt to open me up like a blooming flower. And whenever I returned from a walk through the fields, he would have a lavish bouquet of false flowers waiting on my throne.

However, over time I grew to recognize my stature. After all, not many goddesses could say that they had power like mine. I began to wear my royal title like a mantle, draping it around my shoulders and letting it trail behind me in my wake. I was not always merciful, as you may well know yourself, mortal, but it is nigh impossible to say that I was not fair. The Lord took this fervor of mine as a sign that I had forgiven him. I still do not know if I have.

I sit beside him, as his equal, commanding the dead just like he does. I let him kiss my cheek and sometimes return the favor if I am feeling kind that day. I dance with him, resting my head over his heart and breathing in his musk.

But he is the one who made me his bride and thrust the Underworld upon me.

It is difficult to say that I resent him. It is much easier to say that I cannot, and will never be able to, love him in the same way he loves me.

Thus, for four months of the year, I live as the Queen of the Dead, never as his wife.

Now, dear mortal, you have heard it all. Tell it to the world.

~ ad.gray

Extra: Sorry for the unholy amount of name euphemisms and epithets. The TL;DR is that I didn’t want the associations of the Greek gods’ relationships, and by extension their names, in this story because they’re a mess by modern standards, so I opted for euphemisms and epithets instead. I decided to not use names at all because consistency, I guess? This kind of works though since “Persephone” is telling the story to a mortal and mortals avoided saying certain god’s names, Persephone and Hades among them, out of fear or respect (source). Saying a god’s name gets their attention, and getting the god’s of death attention was considered unlucky (source). This story’s version of Persephone is pretty understanding, I guess. Also, I tried to mimic the style of the Homeric Hymn to Demeter (this was the translation I used), and the amount of descriptors is insane. Thanks for coming to my TedTalk.

Hope you enjoyed this! <3

[sirthisisa-wendys]

Punica granatum: Toji Fushiguro x Fem!Reader

synopsis: a short snippet of a story you all know and love.

wc: 1.6k

tw: none

masterlist

"Are you hungry?"

"No." You cast an angry glance at the monster who is holding you captive. "Leave me alone."

"Perhaps you're thirsty?"

"No." A protective covering of shrubs shields you away from the stench of oakmoss and belladonna emitting from the entity across from you. "Go away." His green eyes shift from your hunched-over figure to the stone-cold floor in front of him.

"I..." His words falter, but you look away from him, focusing on some point in the distance. The hulking god across from you stands suddenly, storming off in the face of your resistance as you call out,

"I'd rather die than live here with you."

But that wasn't all true. Death is so final, so permanent. And you could never bring yourself to do the unthinkable and commit yourself to such an act. However, you did not want your captor to feel any reassurance from your presence.

Discomfort.

You want him to avoid looking at you, avoid talking to you, avoid you completely. Maybe then he would let you go back home to your goddess mother and your life as a humble farmer to the eternal beings of this world.

Maybe then he'd see you were of no value to him among the various others he could have stolen that day.

But Toji Fushiguro is a patient god, you learn, and your hunger strike withers in the face of his persistence.

"You must be hungry," he murmurs, leaning over the couch you're perched on and looking at you curiously. "I have fruit if you want it. And it's fresh."

Fresh fruit. Your stomach grumbles furiously at the offering, but you mask your hunger with a look of disinterest.

"No, thank you." You place your book in front of your face again, the words blurring together as Toji moves around to sit next to you, his black sweatshirt pulled taut over his chest.

"Not even some juice, huh?" You don't reply, still pretending to read the book, when he finally sighs. "Well, I'm going to go to a meeting. I'll be back shortly but in the meantime, my... friend... will be watching over you. In case you try to escape." Again, you offer him no response, and Toji leaves you alone on the couch; the invisible "friend" no doubt just the cameras placed around the property.

You've scoped them out and know where you can hide should you need a place to do something secretive. Three blind spots. That's all you had to do what you had wanted to do for some time now.

You walk into the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water before looking over the offerings in the fruit bowl. Bananas, oranges, apples... a pomegranate.

Perfect.

You pluck the ripe fruit from the bowl with ease and retrieve a metal spoon from a drawer. All the knifes had been replaced with notes like "thought you could use one of those, huh" and "not in my house". Little shithead.

You open the fruit and scrape the seeds from inside while you stand between the pantry and the laundry room, right in the blind spot of two cameras. You devour the fruit in record timing, then dispose of it as quickly as you can before downing the cup of water you poured earlier, placing it in the sink, and in full view of a camera.

"I knew you were hungry."

The voice behind you makes your skin crawl, and you turn to face Toji again, eyes wide.

"How did you--"

"Does it matter?" he wonders, taking his hands out of his sweatpants pockets and rubbing them together briefly. "Between the fruit and the books, you're easy to predict. You haven't considered I've planted everything here for you so you'll be more inclined to--"

"You tricked me."

"And?" Your stomach lurches, and you grip the sink edge behind you, vision blurring.

"What the hell have you done to me?" Toji gives you a toothy grin, approaching you slowly and placing both hands on either side of your body. His head dips, the scar on his lips separating as he speaks gently, deliberately.

"You consumed my property. You ate one of the many fruits I grow in the fields of my domain, little goddess. You're mine... at least until I say you're not." Your knees buckle slightly, but you still manage to keep yourself upright, clutching the sink for all it's worth. "Six sections of the pomegranate. Six months out of the year. That's what you owe me."

"Fucking asshole--"

"Careful, y/n," Toji touches your chin, but you snap your teeth at him with the little strength you have left. "It's a shame you didn't eat the orange. But I bet you wish you would've eaten the banana instead..."

His voice fades to black as you slump forward, your body giving out and no longer supporting you.

_____________________________________________________________

You awake in your bed, like most mornings, staring out at the barren landscape of your new home.

"There's no life here," you whisper to no one, eyes blinking slowly. "There's nothing here."

Toji takes his respite in his own room, choosing to remain away from you, especially because you cry. You cry every single day. And when you're not crying, you're laying somewhere, sniffling into your sleeves as you dig deeper into the despair and sorrow of your predicament.

The first time you cried, he didn't know what to do. Toji started with trying to get you to eat something - which was rebuffed with a nasty retort - and ended up watching you sob into your hands, unsure of what he could do to make it better.

"You could let me go," you huffed, but he recoiled, frowning at you as if you had just requested the world stop spinning.

"You ate the fruit," he said, crossing his arms over his chest and squinting his emerald eyes. "I'm sorry, but them's the rules."

"You're not sorry."

"No, I'm actually not."

And from that day on, you vowed to see less and less of him until finally, you remained in your room, huddled under the comforter and staring out of the window from dawn until dusk. You don't know how many days had passed like this, but it doesn't matter.

There would be a time when you would be allowed to go home.

You don't want to be here.

Or so you think.

_____________________________________________________________

The first day you're coaxed out of bed is entirely by accident.

A barking noise draws you out of your trance, and you almost fall out of bed at the sound of something other than another person in the house.

You throw open the door and rush toward the yipping, finding Toji sitting in the living room on all fours and staring down at the little white dog. The tiny thing is staring back at him with wide blue eyes, wholly focused.

"Speak."

The dog barks twice, then a treat is produced from Toji's hand and deposited in front of the canine. When Toji sees you staring from around the corner, brows furrowed, he offers you a look of recognition. The white dog walks up to Toji and licks his face, then sits and waits patiently.

"Throw hands," Toji commands the dog, and it backs up on its back legs, raising its front paws before jumping toward Toji. "I taught it a few tricks." You approach the two carefully, the dog facing you with a wide smile and a wagging tail.

"Hey, little buddy..." you whisper, picking it up carefully.

"His name is Six Eyes."

You and Six Eyes become fast friends, running around the house and terrorizing Toji on occasion. But the best days are spent with Six Eyes in your room, both of you laying out on the bed with a book or something to take your mind off of the punishment you must endure.

Toji rarely bothers you, and you the same. Unless, of course, Six Eyes needs to pee and he can't take him out due to "work", or you need Toji to get his dog food.

But in taking care of the little dog - who is much smarter than he would have anyone believe - you find a softness in Toji you hadn't seen before. Countless times, you find him and Six Eyes napping on the couch or playing "soccer" (which is just fetch with a tennis ball), or sitting together and watching some science fiction show. Your hatred of him doesn't quite wane, but you allow yourself to see him in a different light. One that isn't so bad.

_____________________________________________________________

"Tomorrow," Toji announces while you're sitting with Six Eyes and watching a telenovela. "You're going home tomorrow."

"Wait, really?" He notices the lift in your tone, the way you straighten up and your eyes regain the hint of the familiar glow they had before he stripped it away from you. In his heart, there is deep envy, a deep desire to know what it's like to be thought of as desirable. But he ignores that part of himself, stuffing it down as you hold Six Eyes in your arms and watch him carefully.

"Yeah," he answers, tossing the pieces of junk mail into the trash in the kitchen. "For six months."

"Can I take him with me?" You hold up the dog and the animal stares at him with that stupid "head empty, stomach full" look. Toji clicks his tongue against his teeth and turns away, shrugging.

"Whatever." You respond by placing a few kisses on the dog's head, returning back to the telenovela with a cheerfulness you can't quite contain. And Toji notices it, growing ever so distant with each hour that passes, until he's fully retreated into his room and sulking while reading the volume you had first picked up when you arrived, trying to find a deeper meaning within the words he had never read before.