#sowr 1

[wooliguns]

1.

he’s got glitter for skin my radiant beam in the night i don’t need no light to see you shine…

Parties are pointless—like most of humanity.

Scara has always believed that. Loud, sweaty, packed rooms full of people pretending to enjoy themselves, pretending to be interesting, pretending to matter. It’s all just another performance—a desperate attempt to be seen, to convince themselves they’re not alone.

He exhales sharply, gripping his paintbrush and twirling it between his fingers as his dorm mate, Venti, rummages around like a squirrel hunting for buried treasure. Venti is supposedly getting ready for some festival in town—yet another excuse to throw a house party, because, naturally, that’s what jocks do. And, bewilderingly enough, Venti has somehow become one of those jocks. It’s odd, really, considering he’s friends with Scara, who would rather endure a long lecture on cauldron-bottom thickness than subject himself to a night of forced small talk and cheap alcohol. They’re polar opposites in every way.

Jocks—they’ll seize any chance to throw money at overpriced drinks and deafening music, deluding themselves into thinking it brings them closer to enlightenment. Scara has never understood the appeal. It’s all just noise. Background static. Something he’d rather tune out.

Not that he’s averse to drinking. Far from it. He enjoys the slow burn of alcohol, the way it dulls the sharp edges of reality, makes things a little less unbearable. But as he’s grown older, he’s found himself craving quiet moments instead—the kind that settle into your bones like warmth on a cold night. Especially after getting a taste of it. For three blissful years, he had it. A home. A person. Someone he thought would always be there.

But that chapter has long since closed.

Bang.

The door swings open, nearly making him drop his brush.

“Scara, what are you doing? Are you getting ready or what? We’re leaving in half an hour! Please tell me you’re not—”

Venti stands in the doorway, dressed like a walking catalog ad in a powder blue button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, beige shorts, and spotless white sneakers. His usual twin braids are loose tonight, softening his features, making him look deceptively harmless. But his expression is anything but—brows furrowed, lips pressed in a pout that’s both exasperated and vaguely amused.

Meanwhile, Scara hasn’t moved from his spot in front of the easel, staring blankly at a white canvas that seems to mock his lack of enthusiasm.

“Hey… I told you, I don’t want to go. I don’t even know anyone there.” A half-truth. He knows plenty of people. He just doesn’t care for any of them.

Venti scoffs, marching over. “Oh, come on. You don’t want to go? What do you mean you don’t want to go? I’m not taking no for an answer, Scara—not this time.”

Before Scara can protest, Venti snatches the paintbrush from his hand, setting it aside with the other neglected art supplies gathering dust. Then, with zero warning, he grabs Scara’s wrist, pulling him off the chair and steering him toward the bathroom.

Scara barely has time to open his mouth before a towel smacks him in the face.

“Venti…” he groans, peeling the towel off with a sigh.

“Just take a quick shower, alright? Furina’s already on her way to meet up with her friends, and we’re all supposed to meet up together. If we’re late and she starts nagging, my night’s shot. I just want to have some fun! You know how much of a prima donna she is—it’s exhausting.”

“She is,” Scara mutters, rubbing his temples.

“Exactly! So please, don’t make this harder than it has to be, okay?”

“‘Kay…” He sighs, shutting the bathroom door behind him.

Scara turns on the shower, watching as steam curls against the mirror. He doesn’t want to go. Not if Furina’s going to be there.

The girl is a bona fide menace. Insufferable, nosy, impossible to read. Half the time, Scara can’t tell if she’s being sincere or if she’s just toying with him for her own amusement. Ever since she and Venti got together, she’s been inserting herself into their lives like an unwanted houseguest, showing up unannounced, filling the dorm with her endless chatter, testing the limits of his patience. And now he’s supposed to meet her friends? The ones she’s probably blackmailed into attending? Fantastic.

In truth, Scara doesn’t even know who these so-called ‘friends’ are. He’s only heard about them in passing, and frankly, he couldn’t care less. They aren’t his kind of people. Not that it matters—he’s roughly been his own person lately.

He hasn’t left the dorm in over a week. He’s pretty sure he’s starting to merge with the furniture.

Venti’s probably at his wit’s end. I refuse to have a recluse for a friend! He’d joked about it three days ago. Or at least, Scara thought it was a joke. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Venti is genuinely worried.

Scara exhales, tipping his head back under the water. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

Lathering shampoo through his hair, his fingers freeze as a thought sneaks up on him—insidious and unwelcome.

This is Kazuha’s shampoo.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just shampoo.

But the bottle is nearly empty now, and Kazuha isn’t here to replace it.

A hollow laugh escapes him. Imagine being undone by a goddamn bottle of shampoo.

He stares at the label, fingers tightening around the plastic. For three years, Kazuha always made sure they had an extra bottle on hand. Always the same brand, always the same scent. It was such a small, insignificant thing. But now, it’s the only thing left of him.

And once it’s gone, that’s it.

Scara squeezes his eyes shut, rinsing out the shampoo with unnecessary force.

He finishes up quickly, drying off and throwing on whatever clothes he can find—instinctively reaching for the darkest ones, which, unsurprisingly, is nearly everything. A black vintage band tee, navy blue windbreaker, black shorts, and black socks. Black choker, black bracelets, black wristwatch. He looks like he’s attending a funeral.

To break the monotony, he pulls on a pair of obnoxiously bright green sneakers.

Just to feel something.

He drags a comb through his still-damp hair, eyes flicking to the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced than ever, deep smudges of exhaustion that no amount of rest could erase—not that he gets much rest to begin with. No matter how long he lies in bed, no matter how many times he closes his eyes, sleep never comes easily. His body refuses to shut down. And he knows exactly why.

How can he sleep when the space next to him is so biting and vacant, when the absence aches worse than any wound? And—fuck, there he goes again. Rambling. Letting his thoughts spiral where they have no business going. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. It’s pointless. It’s over. His dreams aren’t worth looking forward to when the only dream he ever wanted has long since slipped through his fingers.

Besides, nightmares visit him more often than anything else. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe he prefers exhaustion over whatever his subconscious might drag up from the depths. He’s tired—so goddamn tired—of hurting, but he knows he’s still got plenty of it left in him. The tears haven’t dried up yet. They’re just waiting. Lurking. Ready to spill at the worst possible moment.

“I’m ready,” he mutters, fidgeting with his earrings, chewing absentmindedly on the lip ring at the corner of his mouth. There’s a foreign kind of unease crawling under his skin, something uncomfortably close to self-consciousness. And he hates that Venti is the one making him feel this way.

Venti, of course, just grins, giving him a once-over with that infuriatingly satisfied expression—like drawing Scara out of his self-imposed exile is some kind of personal victory. Without another word, they head downstairs to the car, and Scara immediately slides into the backseat, ignoring the dramatic sigh Venti lets out as he settles behind the wheel.

“Seriously? Backseat?” Venti groans. “Now I look like an Uber driver.”

Scara stares out the window, unbothered. “Maybe I’ll leave you a tip if you keep your mouth shut.”

Venti clicks his tongue but doesn’t argue further. And honestly? Scara just feels safer in the back. A little more removed from whatever tangle he’s being dragged into. He already knows he’s going to hate every second of it.

Of course, Venti has a million friends at their university—how could he not? He’s a jock. A social butterfly. Dating the queen bee herself. Furina, better known as Focalors, has been Venti’s girlfriend for the last eight months, a pairing so absurd that it practically broke the social hierarchy.

Venti and Furina. Venti and Furina.

It sounded like a joke. A glitch in the system. A fever dream someone made up just to stir the pot.

For years, people—including Scara—thought Venti was as gay as they come, given his illustrious lineup of exes. First, there was Xiao, the beautifully chaotic trainwreck. Then Aether, the golden boy with a heart to match. And, to top it all off, their ex-professor, Diluc Ragnvindr—a man who was basically a walking trust fund with a side of deadpan sarcasm.

Then, out of nowhere, Venti’s dating a girl. And not just any girl. Furina.

The human equivalent of an attention-seeking siren. A whirlwind of sharp smiles, theatrical flair, and calculated chaos. Everything about her screamed high maintenance, and yet, somehow, it worked. Venti and Furina, the power couple no one saw coming.

Yeah, it threw people for a loop. Scara included.

For a hot second, he’d forgotten Venti was bisexual. To be fair, that was on him. Sue him for not keeping tabs on his friend’s love life while drowning in his own personal hell.

Thinking about it makes his head hurt. Venti is Venti. There’s no putting him in a box, no predicting his next move. Just when you think you’ve got him figured out, he switches the entire game on you.

Scara could respect that—if he wasn’t so goddamn tired of surprises.

But really, who is he kidding? He’s a walking contradiction himself. A paradox wrapped in cynicism and unresolved emotional baggage. Maybe that’s why they’re still friends. Or maybe that’s why they’re both so fundamentally fucked up.

So it’s no surprise that when Venti pulls into the parking lot of a run-down gas station with an even more run-down diner attached—apparently the grand meeting point for Furina’s little clique—Scara’s immediate instinct is to turn around and walk the fuck home.

From the backseat, he watches the group standing outside in the biting cold, talking amongst themselves. He can already feel the tension radiating off them, the way their eyes flicker toward Venti’s car, waiting. Not for him, obviously. He doubts half of them even know he exists.

Still, he gets the overwhelming sense that whatever’s waiting for him out there?

It’s not going to be good.

First, there’s ‘Monsieur’ Neuvillette, a figure so elusive and composed that merely spotting him on campus feels like catching sight of a rare celestial event. He’s the kind of person who exists on an entirely different plane—one reserved for the elite or those fortunate enough to earn a place in his impossibly selective inner circle. Even tracking his whereabouts requires more detective work than Scara would ever be willing to put in—unless, of course, you have a direct line to the ever-churning rumor mill.

Then there’s Clorinde and Navia, the campus’s most talked-about lesbian power couple. They appear so infrequently that their absence only fuels speculation, adding to their mystique. When they do make an appearance, it’s always at the biggest parties, where they’re practically deified—effortlessly cool, absurdly attractive, and entirely untouchable. Everyone either wants to be them, be with them, or simply bask in their presence for a fleeting moment, hoping some of their facile charisma might rub off.

Dahlia, Charlotte, and Chiori are a different breed altogether. They’re the social butterflies, the ever-smiling faces of campus life, always at the heart of every event worth attending. If there’s a fundraiser, a commemoration, or any other excuse for the university to put on a show, they’re there, soaking up the attention like flowers turning toward the sun.

Naturally, Furina fits right in with this crowd. And, of course, Venti is right there beside her, thriving in the havoc like he was made for it.

And then there’s Scara, sitting in the backseat, feeling like an intruder in a world that isn’t his. He doesn’t belong here, and he knows it. These people aren’t his friends. This isn’t his scene. And yet, somehow, he’s here anyway, yanked out of his unsolicited banishment by Venti’s insistent nagging.

The whole thing is laughable. If he wasn’t so busy wallowing in existential dread, he might actually laugh.

Instead, all he wants is to go home, back to the sanctity of his sullied, dimly lit room where he can curl up beneath his blankets and forget any of this ever happened. The thought of being back in his own space—far away from Furina’s polished, picture-perfect entourage—makes him wince with longing. But it’s too late for that now. He’s already made the mistake of leaving the dorm, and there’s no turning back. Not when Venti is already parking, sealing his fate for the night.

They barely have time to step out of the car before Furina’s voice cuts through the crisp night air like a knife.

“Hello, darling!”

Scara barely suppresses a full-body cringe as Furina practically throws herself at Venti, arms wrapping around his shoulders in a display so nauseatingly saccharine it could induce cavities. It’s like a scene ripped straight out of some terrible rom-com, complete with Furina’s perfectly timed pout as she pokes a manicured finger against Venti’s chest.

“You’re late.”

Venti, utterly unbothered, tilts his head with a lazy grin. “Am I? I thought I wasn’t.” His arms snake around her waist with practiced ease, and suddenly, Scara feels like he’s intruding on something far too theatrical for real life.

Furina tugs at his collar, lips curving into a playful smirk. “But you are.”

A low, unimpressed grunt from behind them transposes the attention.

“What matters is they’re here now, so let’s just go,” Neuvillette intones, his deep voice cutting through the frivolity with a kind of idiot-proof authority that makes the entire group pause.

For a second, it seems like that might be the end of it. But then Furina’s gaze flicks past Venti, her sharp, heterochromatic eyes locking onto Scara like a spotlight turning onto an unprepared actor.

And just like that, he’s on display.

Her expression conveys from surprise to something bordering on delight. “Oh, you brought Scaramouche along! That’s wonderful, babe!” she exclaims, before wrenching Venti closer for a kiss.

Venti giggles. Actually giggles. Like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Scara heaves sharply through his nose, careful to keep the sound quiet, but internally, he’s screaming. He wants out. Now.

He wants to vanish into the shadows before Furina’s whirlwind energy sweeps him up and spits him out. He’s always found her exhausting—the way she commands attention without even trying, the way her presence demands participation, the way she’s just too much in every possible way.

Maybe that’s why she and Venti work so well together. They’re both loud, ridiculous, and utterly immune to shame.

And maybe that’s why he feels so out of place, standing at the edge of their world, watching them spin around each other like planets in a solar system he was never meant to belong to.

And the worst part? He’s the one who let himself get pulled into their orbit.

Tearing his gaze from the nauseating display of affection, Scara’s breath stutters when his eyes land on someone he never expected to see tonight.

Not with this group. Not in this setting. Not here, where everything already feels surreal and out of place.

For a second, he wonders if he’s imagining things. But no—it’s really him. His former blockmate. The guy he used to sit near in class last year, close enough that their elbows nearly brushed, close enough that conversation should have been inevitable. But it never was. Despite all those shared lectures, despite the fleeting moments when their paths almost aligned, they never spoke. Not once.

And after vanishing for a whole year, here he is.

Where the hell has he been?

Scara never heard anything about him transferring or dropping out. It’s not like he disappeared entirely, but one day, he just… wasn’t there anymore. A ghost slipping through the cracks. A presence turned into nothing more than a passing memory.

But now, standing here—looking even more gorgeous than Scara remembers—he might as well be a mirage.

Whatever. Not his problem.

Without a second glance, Scara turns on his heel and heads straight back to Venti’s car. The last thing he wants is to get sucked into introductions or pointless small talk. He doesn’t do small talk. And really, what would he even say? Hey, remember when we sat near each other in class and ignored each other for an entire year?

Yeah. No thanks.

All he wants is for this night to be over so he can go back to sulking in peace.

**

Much to Scara’s chagrin, the inevitable happens. He’s crammed into Venti’s car with the so-called stars of the night, and the entire ride to the party is an uncomfortable squeeze between Charlotte—and Lyney, of all people. His former blockmate. Just his luck. He rolls his eyes so hard he practically sees his brain. This is hell. The only saving grace is that everyone in the car smells absurdly good—luxurious, even. Lyney, in particular, smells divine. But Scara would rather set himself on fire than admit that.

No wonder Furina had insisted they leave early; they needed another car just to avoid being packed in like sardines. Apparently, someone had already loaned their car to a friend at the venue, so Venti—ever the helpful idiot—stepped up as their knight in shining armor. Of course, Venti agreed without bothering to clue Scara in. If Scara had known, he wouldn’t have tagged—

Oh.

Right. That’s exactly why.

Maybe Venti was smart to keep it from him, but that doesn’t mean Scara isn’t pissed about it. The whole situation just makes him want to withdraw even more, to spite them all. Screw formalities. He won’t let Venti talk him into playing nice, no matter how much he pleads. The night’s already ruined.

As soon as they pull up to the party, Scara is itching to get out of the car, to put as much distance between himself and this suffocating mess as possible. He waits for Lyney to climb out first so he can follow, but when the guy offers a hand like some gallant gentleman, eyes warm and vexingly kind, Scara pointedly ignores it and gets out on his own. He straightens his clothes, runs a hand through his hair—which still carries the lingering scent of his ex’s shampoo—and locks eyes with Lyney once more.

The guy just smirks at him.

No words pass between them. Scara doesn’t return the smile. He’s too ticked off for that.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker, he prepares to brave the chaos ahead—a jam-packed scene of college party-goers, loud and restless. A crowd chants something idiotic, hyping up a guy downing an entire barrel of draft beer while another in a varsity jacket waves his blue solo cup around like a weapon, dangerously close to spilling its contents on passersby. Scara stops mid-step as Venti jogs up beside him, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

He already knows this night is going to be a disaster.

“Hey… So, we’ll be meeting up with more people inside. Turns out, Furina’s friends from overseas flew in this afternoon, and she invited them. I know you’re not big on people, so if you don’t want to—”

“Don’t worry about me, Venti. Just go.” Scara cuts him off, already tired. “Go have fun. I’ll be fine. I’ll grab some drinks, find a spot. It’ll be great.”

Venti eyes him skeptically, like a guilty puppy caught stealing food. “You sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Okay. Just… text me if you need anything?” Venti asks, eyes gleaming with concern, like Scara’s some fragile thing.

Scara nods, rolling his eyes but trying not to make it obvious. “Will do, Ven.”

With a final grin, Venti disappears into the crowd with Furina and the rest of their clique, vanishing into the pulsating heart of the party.

Meanwhile, Scara stays back, lingering at the edges of the chaos. He takes a slow breath, steeling himself as he scans the scene. The crowd is thick, laughter and shouting blend into the thumping bass, and the air is laced with cigarette smoke and something sweeter. More cars pull up, unloading more bodies, more noise, more everything.

His hands tighten in his pockets, fingers brushing against the familiar coolness of metal—the ring, his phone, his lighter. Essentials.

I’ll be fine, he tells himself.

He just has to believe it.

It’s only been a couple of months since he swore off these kinds of scenes, but it’s not like he’s a stranger to them. He partied hard in his second year, was once the life of the party like Venti and Furina. But now, he’s grown out of it, lost touch with whatever it was that made him want to dance, flirt, and have fun.

So, what now? He can’t just bail when they’ve only just gotten here. Maybe he should start with a drink. Yes, that’s a plan. Grab a drink, find a quiet corner, and light up a cigarette or two. He’ll survive this, somehow.

He makes his way toward the house, weaving through the throng of people, and manages to find the kitchen, where the drinks are. He didn’t see Venti or any of Furina’s friends on the way there, which is just as well. But as he reaches the kitchen, he bumps into Chongyun, Yoimiya, Hu Tao, and Keqing, who all look at him like he’s a ghost.

“You came! Yo, guys! Scara is here!” Yoimiya practically shouts, drawing unwanted attention to him.

“Scara? You mean, Scaramouche who’s been MIA for a year?!” Hu Tao exclaims, eyes wide in mock surprise.

A year? She’s exaggerating.

There’s laughter, light and teasing. “Not a year, you dummy! A month, more like!”

Scara sighs, his patience wearing thin. “Okay, okay. I get it! I haven’t been going out lately. Happy?” He rolls his eyes and pushes past them, determined to continue with his mission of finding a drink.

He just wants to get through this night without losing his mind. That’s all he asks. Sheesh.

Scara takes two bottles of beer from the fridge, noticing they’re mixed with vodka, as the label boldly declares. The combination promises a quick, potent buzz—exactly what he needs. He pushes his way through the swarm of bodies in the foyer, each step a ploy through an anarchic sea of dancers and drunk party-goers, their movements dictated by the thumping beat from the DJ in the corner. The whole scene is a frenzy of sound and flashing lights, people screaming and gyrating as if trying to outdo each other in sheer madness.

Scara isn’t used to this anymore. The noise, the entropy—it’s all redundant. He makes his way outside, looking for a quieter area where he can down his drinks in solitude. But every corner he turns, there’s some new absurdity waiting for him. People shouting, laughing, making fools of themselves, or worse. He needs to get away from it all.

He decides to sneak off into the woods, seeking solace under the canopy of trees where he can be alone, away from the craziness. Maybe he’ll lie down beneath a tree and stare up at the stars, smoke his remaining cigarettes until he feels numb, until the night blurs into oblivion.

As he trudges through the darkness, he stumbles upon a group of freshmen and sophomores. Their varsity jackets give them away, as does their raucous laughter. They’re soaked, looking like they just emerged from a swim. It puzzles Scara. Is there a lake around here? He wonders if they’ve been skinny dipping.

A few more steps and he finds the lake, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. Sure enough, there are students in the water, some naked, others in their underwear, splashing around without a care in the world. He sighs and finds a place beneath a tree, sitting down with his back against the trunk.

Pulling out his pack of cigarettes, he lights one with Kazuha’s lighter—still with him, even now. The flame flickers in the night air as he brings the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. The smoke fills his lungs, and he exhales slowly, watching the tendrils dissipate into the cold night.

He uncaps one of the beer bottles with the lighter and his thumb, taking a long swig. The alcohol burns a little as it goes down, but it’s a welcome sensation. He leans his head back against the tree and takes another drag from his cigarette, glancing up at the sky. The stars are bright tonight, more vivid than he’s seen in a long time. Out here in the woods, away from the lights of the party, they seem to shine just for him.

Finally, in this quiet moment, he can think clearly. His mind drifts to the assignments he’s been neglecting—the plates due at the end of the month. If he doesn’t get started soon, he’s going to fail two major subjects.

The thought makes him laugh, a bitter sound that catches in his throat. He hasn’t even begun. No inspiration, no motivation, nothing to spark his creativity.

His source of creativity. Whatever happened to that? Whatever happened to him?

What’s changed with Kazuha? It’s been over a week with no contact, not even a simple text to ask him over. Has he met someone else? The thought gnaws at him, even though he tries to shake it off. See, Kazuha had always been quick to reply—instant, almost—whether they were broken up or not. He used to answer Scara’s messages within seconds, and even after they’d declared a ‘cool-off,’ he still managed to respond within a day. They’d still hang out, spending entire days together, always ending up in each other’s arms, in bed, in their old shared flat. Those moments after, lying there with nothing left to say because they’d talked about everything they could over the seven years they’d known each other, now feel like a distant memory.

Seven years is a long time for most, but for them, it felt fleeting. They were just two kids who met when they were lost, trying to navigate a world that didn’t make sense. They tried to grow together, to make sense of things, but somehow, in the blink of an eye, it was gone.

Scara tips the bottle back, draining the rest of the beer in one go.

The group of kids near the lake eventually dissipates, and Scara checks the time on his phone: it’s barely nine in the evening. He looks up at the sky, marveling at how clear the stars are from his spot in the woods. He opens the second bottle and takes a sip, then a larger gulp, feeling the alcohol start to warm his insides. He lights another cigarette, taking quick, sharp drags, the smoke swirling around him in the night air.

Footsteps sound from the direction of the party, crunching leaves and twigs underfoot. He hears voices—soft, murmuring words—and realizes it’s a couple. He rolls his eyes, already dreading the idea of witnessing some horny college students making out when all he wants is to be alone. Great, he thinks bitterly. Just what I need—more happy people reminding me of what I’ve lost.

But who is he kidding? He’s the one who let go of Kazuha, not the other way around. He’s the one who pulled away, too afraid of the feelings that ran too deep, too scared of what he might lose if he let himself be vulnerable. This—this lonely night, this aching sense of regret—is what he gets for being such a coward.

Looking up slightly, Scara is momentarily stunned to see Lyney with a girl. Lyney, who lights up upon meeting his stare. “Oh, it’s you.” The same lilac eyes from earlier sweep over him, and then a sly smirk appears on his lips.

Scara deliberately avoids acknowledging him. Instead, he huffs and curls his knees against his chest. He wants nothing to do with Lyney. The guy didn’t bother to say hello on the way here, and now he’s acting all chummy. Typical. Just like the rest of his crowd—snobbish and overly self-assured. Scara’s already tired of his own brand of aloofness, so he’s in no mood to deal with more of it.

That may be the case, but Scara can’t help it; he’s drawn to the scene. With nothing better to do, he watches as Lyney whispers something to the girl, making her giggle before she saunters off, throwing him a lingering, flirtatious glance. Of course, Lyney’s goodbye is sealed with a playful slap on her ass.

As soon as the show’s over, Scara scoots away, trying to appear as oblivious as possible while continuing to smoke. He doesn’t want anything to do with his former blockmate. Just leave me the fuck alone. Don’t come over here, don’t ruin what little peace I’ve managed to find. Please, for once, just—

But when does Scara ever get what he wants? Never.

Lyney plops down on the grass next to him, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And then, with that infuriatingly casual tone, asks, “This seat taken? May I?”

Scara doesn’t bother to hide his irritation. “I don’t see any ‘seats,’” he drawls, complete with air quotes and a raised brow. “Do you?”

Lyney, unfazed, tilts his head and smirks, one hand on his hip. The slight indent of a dimple appears on his cheek, something Scara only notices now, after all their previous encounters. “Huh. Then how come you’re sitting if there aren’t any?”

It takes all of Scara’s willpower not to roll his eyes. “Because I want to.”

Lyney’s nod is slow, almost mocking. “And if I want to sit too? Would that be a problem?”

Scara scowls, his patience wearing thin. “It would, because I don’t want you to.”

“Ah, so I should just take your word for it, right?”

Scara’s tongue ties itself into knots, and he lets out a frustrated sigh, scooting away from Lyney. “Whatever. Do what you want, just don’t bother me.”

Lyney chuckles, undeterred. “Whoa! Grumpy, aren’t you? I didn’t think so at first. You were always smiling back then… Hm.” He taps a finger against his chin, feigning deep thought. “But I guess I was wrong about that.”

Scara’s jaw drops. “What are you even saying—”

“Never mind,” Lyney interrupts, waving him off. “And I’d sit here anyway, even if you said no.” With that, he flops down beside Scara, looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

Scara shakes his head, turning his gaze back up to the stars. At least they’re quiet. He takes another sip of his beer, only to realize the bottle’s nearly empty. Time for a refill, but just as he starts to get up, something in his peripheral vision stops him. He narrows his eyes at Lyney. “What are you doing?” No wonder he’s gone quiet.

Lyney doesn’t even look up. “You said I could do whatever I want. So.”

“Yeah, but that’s…”

Scara blinks, and for a split second, he swears it’s Kazuha crouched in front of him, rolling their usual joint. But no, this isn’t Kazuha. He’s not here. He’s off with someone else, living a life that no longer includes Scara.

“You also said not to bother you. Is this bothering you?” Lyney’s periwinkle eyes gleam as he glances up, a mischievous grin spreading across his lips. He’s teasing, mocking—being downright annoying.

Annoyingly attractive. Yeah, there it is. Because anyone with eyes would agree: Lyney is gorgeous. The way he’s sitting there, so casual, yet so perfect—he’s sensuous, comely. And Scara has eyes, alright.

He scowls, trying to shake off the thought, but it lingers stubbornly. “No.”

“Then I don’t see why you’re making such a face at me, dear,” Lyney says, all sweet and seductive, another pesky smile playing on his lips, his dimple deepening. Ugh.

Scara sags in defeat. “Because… are you for real? Out in the open, seriously?”

“I mean, why not? Are you… scared or something?” Lyney smirks up at him, and Scara’s just—

“Hey. Watch it. I’m not scared, alright? Far from it, actually. But if someone sees you taking out a bag of weed and snitching on you, I’m not bailing your ass. And none of you are gonna make a witness out of me either, because—”

“Oh, hush you… Don’t worry! Besides, I don’t think you’re the type to get tangled in other people’s messes. Of course, you won’t do that.” Lyney shrugs—throws a wink at him.

Scara raises a brow, because this guy has no idea how many times he had to save his and Kazuha’s asses back then when they… And his mom almost disowned him for each of those times. “What gave you the impression that I—”

“Anyway, here you are.” Lyney offers him a blunt, perfectly rolled, that looks almost like a cigarette. Clean work. This shuts him up, despite itching to complain about how Lyney rarely lets him finish a sentence.

He takes the spliff, hating how smug Lyney looks when he does. “Well? Sit back down, why don’t you? Or are you going to risk us both getting caught standing like that?”

Scara huffs, but he sits because he knows Lyney is right. He lights it up, the taste of burning grass filling his mouth, and—damn—he loves it. “Bringing weed to a festival… What, you just casually carry a bag of illegal substances everywhere you go?”

“Nope. Just tonight.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“I’m only kidding. This isn’t mine.”

Scara shoots the guy a skeptical look, but the guy just grins. “Whose, then…?”

“Took it from that girl just now.” Scara’s mouth hangs open, and Lyney’s grin grows larger. “I wasn’t actually planning to hook up with her, you know? I just want what she has. Or had, for that matter.”

“You’re a pickpocket,” Scara accuses, immediately checking his pockets for his phone, wallet, anything valuable. Especially—he sighs in relief when his fingers brush against the engagement ring he bought months ago, the one he was supposed to use to propose to… He blinks.

“Relax, I’m not going to rob you,” Lyney laughs slyly, watching him.

Scara keeps blinking, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I… I needed to be sure.”

Lyney sighs, placing a blunt between his lips and lighting it up. “I won’t rob you because I don’t want any of those things you brought with you. …More like I want you instead.”

“You…” Wait, what? Scara’s heart skips a beat, racing in his chest. “What did you say?”

Lyney just hums, ignoring the question. “And I wondered, what could be a good conversation starter with a boy like him…? Alcohol? Nah, it’s everywhere, wouldn’t make much of an impact. Same goes for cigarettes. Then I thought, maybe—weed. You looked like you could use some.”

Scara clears his throat, thankful for the tears that don’t come embarrassing him as he looks down at his lap. “So you nicked weed just to talk to me. Do I look like a druggie to you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Right. And you expect me to believe that. What a way to pull a guy.”

“So, you’re saying this is me pulling you? And you don’t seem like you’re going to put a stop to it.”

“I didn’t say that,” Scara mutters, taking another drag. This time, he coughs, the bitter taste of the weed scratching his throat.

Lyney chuckles, the sound catching Scara’s attention, even through his coughing fit. “For the record, you don’t look like a druggie, Scaramouche. In my eyes, you look rather lovely, and it would really, really put me on cloud nine if we kissed. Right now.”

Scara stares at Lyney, feeling the haze of the weed and two bottles of whatever settling over his mind. The blunt is still in his hand, but his grip on it is loose, almost as if he’s forgotten he’s holding it. “You’re so dumb,” he mutters to his former blockmate, who simply takes the spliff from Scara’s fingers and takes a long drag.

Their eye contact doesn’t break, not even when Lyney flicks the filter away, the embers snuffing out in the night air. “Yeah, and you want to kiss the dumb out of me so bad, don’t you?”

Scara has no retort to that, so he stays silent. But he’s aware—painfully aware—that he’s leaning in, inching closer to Lyney.

Lyney lifts Scara’s chin gently, guiding their mouths to meet in the middle. When their lips finally connect, it’s like a puzzle piece snapping into place.

Lyney’s lips are soft, though slightly chapped from the cold, yet there’s a sweetness to them that Scara finds intoxicating. He tastes good. Too good. Scara can’t get enough of him. Can’t get enough of this.

It’s been a while since he’s kissed anyone, and he realizes how much he’s missed it. Missed the feeling of being held, being wanted. If only…

They spend the better part of the night making out, almost lying on the grass with Lyney on top of him. And yet, the whole time, Scara’s thoughts drift to… Kazuha.

No, they don’t kiss the same. No, they don’t possess the same flavor. They each have their unique efficacy in them, to his mind, to his body, to his responses.

No, they don’t kiss the same. Kazuha’s kisses were always forbearing, like Scara was made of gold, something too precious to be handled roughly. Lyney, on the other hand—while he’s careful, there’s a roughness to him, an enthusiasm that makes Scara feel like Lyney’s been waiting a long time for this. He can feel it in the way Lyney’s hand trails down his back, over his ass, in the way he caresses Scara’s cheek and takes control of the kiss.

Breathless, high, and slightly drunk, they break the kiss. Lyney pulls away first, and Scara almost whines, a desperate Kazuha, come back here on the tip of his tongue. He manages to hold it in, but his heart pounds wildly, and he can see that Lyney looks just as wrecked as he feels. Scara’s body is throbbing, and he’s tempted to rub up against something—maybe Lyney’s thigh.

“Well, well…! I’ve been looking all over. So this is where I find you, with your tongue down someone’s throat! Hm? Is that…?” Scara’s head snaps up at the sound of that enragingly familiar voice, and he scowls as he sees a face framed by icy blue hair. “Oh, Scaramouche.”

“Focalors,” he drones.

“What do you know, Venti’s looking for you too.” She leans down, taking in the sight of Lyney still straddling him on the grass, and tilts her head with a smirk. “I have to say, you two look cute together. I didn’t know you and Lyney here—”

“We’re not. We’re just…” Scara pushes Lyney off and scrambles to sit up, hurriedly gathering his things and stuffing them into his pockets. “Where’s Venti then?” he asks, trying to ignore the nausea swirling in his stomach. He darts a glance at the crushed reefer, now reduced to ashes, and quickly snags it, shoving it into his pocket as well. He jumps to his feet, dusting off his shorts.

“Back at the party. Hey, where are you going?” Furina asks as he brushes past her.

“Home. I’m just gonna tell him I’m heading out.” Scara halts mid-step, considering something, and then glances back at her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Or, maybe you could do me a favor and tell him yourself? I don’t think I can face that place again, and—”

“He’s there, you know.”

Scara’s brow furrows. He blinks at her, confusion flickering across his face. “…What do you mean? Who’s he?”

Furina’s expression shifts, suddenly serious, and that’s all it takes for him to understand. Eyes widening, Scara sprints into the woods, pushing past people who barely register in his mind, driven by a singular, desperate purpose.

There.

In the middle of the crowd, he sees him.

Kazuha.

After a month of nothing. After a week of complete silence. After Scara spent night after night staring at his phone, fighting the urge to type out messages he’d never send. And yet—there he is, standing mere feet away, close enough to touch, close enough to break Scara all over again.

Kazuha looks… fine. Happy, even. Breathtakingly beautiful, just as he was the last time Scara held him. The sight knocks the air from his lungs, an unseen punch to the gut. He can’t breathe.

His hands clench at his sides, nails digging into his palms, leaving crescent-shaped wounds in his skin. The weight in his pocket burns—a ring, one he never had the courage to give, pressing against him like a cruel reminder of everything he’s lost. Everything he threw away.

This isn’t your place, he tells himself, but the thought is useless when every instinct in his body is screaming to run to Kazuha, to reach out, to grab his wrist and pull him away, to ask if he still remembers, still aches, still wants him—

But he doesn’t.

Scara does what he always does. He turns on his heel and walks away, every step heavier than the last, like chains have wrapped around his ankles, dragging him down. The sidewalk stretches out before him, an endless expanse of concrete and streetlights, but the distance doesn’t matter—not when his heart is caving in, splintering inside his chest.

Kazuha is fine without him. Like he’s better off without Kunikuzushi.

And here Scara is, dying on the inside.

Fuck. Why can’t I just fucking move on?

It’s been half a year, half a year of sleepless nights, of waking up to reach for someone who’s no longer there. And yet, he still can’t let go, can’t make peace with the ending he brought upon himself.

To think I was the one who ended it.

Like a cruel joke, the memory replays itself in his mind—his own voice, his own words, the way he hesitated before pulling the trigger. I just need space. That’s what he told Kazuha. That’s what he thought would make it easier, would help him breathe again, would stop the gnawing fear that he wasn’t enough.

Because that’s what it always came down to, didn’t it? His own shortcomings, his own fucking insecurities.

He convinced himself that one day, Kazuha would wake up and realize the truth—that Scara wasn’t worth it, that he deserved someone better, someone who could love him without fear, without mistrust.

And so, before Kazuha could leave, Scara did it first.

But he never thought Kazuha would take that space and never come back.

“Hey. Hey, wait up! Scaramouche!”

Scara glances behind him and sees Lyney trying to catch up. He slows his pace just slightly. “What is it? What do you want?”

Lyney reaches the sidewalk, falling into step beside him. “Why are you walking? Are you seriously heading home on foot?”

“No, I’m not stupid. I’m just going to the main road to call a cab.” With that, Scara picks up his pace again, hoping Lyney will take the hint and leave him be.

But the guy matches his stride and then jogs ahead, spinning around to face him as they continue walking. “Well, if you want, you can ride with me,” he offers, almost too casually.

Scara stops in his tracks, narrowing his eyes. “You have a car?”

“Sure do.”

“Oh, wonderful.” He throws his hands up in exasperation before continuing to walk. “Then why’d you have to cram in with everyone else earlier, making us all sit there like sardines?”

Lyney chuckles, and Scara’s mesmerized by it. His face, contorted in such a fashion makes him look cute. A real catch. “Come now. Because riding with friends is much more fun, don’t you think? It’s plain and simple.”

Scara stops again, and this time, Lyney halts as well. With the alcohol mostly out of his system, Scara takes a moment to really see the guy standing before him. This is the same guy who’s been trailing him all night, who initiated a kiss, who even went so far as to steal someone else’s weed just to start a conversation with him. Lyney.

Lyney, who stands pale under the wintry moonlight, dressed in a pearl-colored shirt and steel-blue shorts, his tawny loafers matching the pristine image he projects. His flaxen blonde hair is braided to the side, giving him an air of effortless elegance and glamour. He’s undeniably attractive, classy in a way that’s hard to ignore. Scara wonders why he never noticed him like this before.

But of course.

You know why.

He knows why.

And looks aren’t everything. Not to him. Scara had handsome guys fall for him that he rejected because he didn’t think they clicked, his ex and ex-flings all looked fetching, his mom is beautiful and he lived with her half of his life. The point is he’s used to seeing charismatic people that it’s not out of the ordinary, so.

So maybe, that’s an additional factor as to why he’s never looked at anyone and deemed them just as pretty as his Kazuha.

His Kazuha…

But Kazuha isn’t his, is he? Not anymore.

He’s allowed to roam his eyes wherever now, whenever he wants.

“Fine, Lyney. Where’s your car?”

“You know my name.” Lyney’s voice is almost breathless, his words clouding in the cold December air. His cheeks are flushed from the chill, and Scara realizes they need to get out of the cold before the poor guy freezes to death.

“I do. Now, your car?”

“Right! Wait there, I’ll go get it.”

“Okay.”

Lyney beams, his smile lighting up the night, and before Scara can react, he leans in to steal a quick kiss. The unexpected gesture leaves Scara momentarily stunned, and he watches as Lyney skips away, giddy and full of life.

As Scara stands there, he realizes he envies him.

Just look at how happy Lyney is, while Scara is left feeling cold and alone, haunted by the knowledge that his ex isn’t missing him the way he misses him.

To be in Lyney’s shoes, carefree and unburdened, with nothing weighing him down.

Good for him.

**

As promised, Lyney returns for him, now driving a sleek white Chevy. The sight of the car suggests that the guy must be loaded. “Hey, pretty boy. Hop in,” the guy calls out with a grin.

Scara sighs at the pet name used so handily, but he complies. Before climbing in, he chances a final glance back at the party, scanning the crowd for any sign of Kazuha. His heart sinks when he fails to spot the familiar white hair, so with a heavy heart, he lets it go and slips into the passenger seat of Lyney’s car. The first thing he notices is how pleasant the interior smells, how spotless and organized everything is.

From the driver’s seat, Lyney reaches into the back and proudly reveals what he’s snuck out for them: a couple of beers. “You are such a thief,” he remarks, raising an eyebrow as he gives Lyney a pointed look.

Lyney merely shrugs, gripping the steering wheel. “Nah, I’d rather you say thank you, actually.”

Scara nods at that, snagging one bottle and opening it with his teeth. “Thanks.” He chugs down some of the cold liquid, feeling the burning sensation of alcohol roll down his throat. He adds as an afterthought, “And for the ride.”

“Anything for the prettiest boy in that party, I suppose.” Scara huffs, but his cheeks are warm from the flattery. The car begins to move, Lyney removing them from the curb. He fixes the rearview mirror before looking behind them, arm leaning over Scara’s seat as he goes. The breath in Scara’s lungs short circuits at the gesture, for the very reason he finds his companion hot and barely centimeters away from his face. He gets a whiff of his cologne and it’s the addicting kind. “You spaced back there, earlier. Is something wrong?”

Withdrawn to his senses, Scara looks out the window, hoping Lyney didn’t notice him practically salivating over his… evident glamor. He’s just oozing sex appeal driving effortlessly like that, and it’s doing things to Scara. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

“If you say so,” Lyney mumbles, and it’s become quiet after that. They make it to the main road. Scara’s almost finished with the beer he opened when Lyney opens his mouth again, “Where do you live then?”

“I live with Venti. If you know where he lives, just take me there.”

“Alright.”

…The rest of the ride is surprisingly quiet—a long, uninterrupted hour and a half with no music playing, no probing questions from Lyney, and not a single mention of the incident at the festival. Scara had already texted Venti, letting him know he left, receiving nothing but a simple thumbs-up in response.

As they pull up to the complex where Scara and Venti live, Lyney parks, but neither of them moves to get out. Scara lights a cigarette, and Lyney wordlessly rolls down the window for him, switching on the heater when Scara grumbles about the chill of the night.

The silence between them is oddly comfortable, or maybe just necessary. Scara finishes his cigarette, flicks the ashes out the window, then shuts it with a sigh, leaning back against the seat. He’s barely settled when Lyney leans over, reaching for his seatbelt buckle. Their noses brush. A slow inhale. A beat too long.

Fuck it.

Scara doesn’t think—doesn’t want to think. Instead, he grips Lyney’s face and drags him into a searing kiss.

It’s messy, clumsy, all heat and restless hands, a desperate collision of lips and teeth. He doesn’t care. He feels Lyney smirk against his mouth, breaking away just enough to murmur, teasingly, “You seem eager to eat me up.”

Scara exhales, ragged. “And if I do? Gonna stop me?”

Lyney huffs a quiet laugh. “Only an idiot would.”

“Then shut up and kiss me.”

And Lyney does.

They don’t speak after that. Scara acts on his own, climbing into Lyney’s lap, the steering wheel pressing uncomfortably into the small of his back. Something barely notices. Hands wander, lips part, breaths mingle. Lyney’s fingers trace along his arms, slow, meant, like he’s trying to memorize him. Scara just focuses on devouring him—on the warmth of his mouth, his taste, anything to drown out the unabating emptiness inside.

God, he’s so cold.

Lyney’s hands slip lower, settling on his hips, grounding him, and Scara chases more, grinding down against him, needing to feel something, anything. The friction sends sparks up his spine, and he shudders, pressing his forehead against Lyney’s as he catches his breath.

But then—Scara stops dead. A flash of horror. He pulls back, voice uneven. “I… I forgot to tell you…”

Lyney shakes his head. “Sshh… I don’t mind, sweet.” His tone is smooth, reassuring. His touch, even more so. “Given our position right now, I figured it out pretty quickly. Here.” Fingers trail along his thigh, slipping beneath the hem of his shorts. Scara doesn’t stop him. He can’t.

He’s already so worked up, his body aching with need, his pulse thrumming beneath his skin. Desire pulses low in his gut—an insatiable craving, not just for pleasure, but for something deeper. For comfort. For tenderness. For something he knows Lyney can’t actually give him.

And yet—

A sharp inhale, a stuttering gasp. The first brush of fingers, then the leaden, torturous slide of them finding their way inside him. Scara’s breath hitches, his hands gripping Lyney’s shoulders as he bites back a whimper. His head tilts back, eyelashes fluttering, and for a moment, just a moment, he lets himself feel good. Lets himself drown in it.

Lyney doesn’t stop, doesn’t rush—just works him open with sluggish, riveted movements, like he’s savoring him. Like he’s taking his time. It’s unfair. It’s too much. Scara shudders, lips parting in a soft, shaky sigh.

They kiss again, but this time it’s slower, deeper. Less frantic. Less about lust and more about something Scara doesn’t want to name.

“Are you gonna fuck me in your car,” Scara finally murmurs between breaths, “or do you want to come up and do it in my room?”

Lyney presses a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Whichever works better for you.”

Scara hums, considering. Then, with a smirk, “I think I’d like to be eaten out before getting fucked sideways, actually. So we should do it in my room.”

Lyney laughs, low and warm. “Anything for the prettiest boy.”

Scara rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling despite himself.

He leads the way up to their dorm, Lyney trailing close behind. As soon as he manages to unlock the door, he’s on him again, pressing them against the wall, claiming his mouth like he’s trying to brand him into memory. Venti isn’t home tonight. The whole place is theirs. They can do whatever they want—be as loud as they want—lose themselves entirely.

That. That, Scara likes. A good cry sounds about right.

Lyney kicks the door shut behind them. Scara drags him toward his room, already shedding layers. Lyney tosses him onto the bed with ease, stripping him down piece by piece, fingers tracing over bare skin, over old wounds, over everything Scara doesn’t talk about.

Scara is already gone. Already floating.

Tomorrow, he won’t remember every detail of this night. Maybe he won’t even try.

Because this? This is nothing.

It’s dark. Lyney is just a body.

And if, the whole time, Scara imagines someone else touching him instead—

Nobody has to know.

[libidomechanica]

S no one within thou iolly she neither makes away, death

A ballad sequence

               1

To write; write, she meet. My Love’s breath     the weird vision to heel. For one Suffering his sowre-breath? And     lent men in vain example

of mine? Thus Praise. Piles up. Net,     to the bestowest thou canst see not seemed to see our though     the Mass, unchew’d by the

chiel maun be paid, in the fool and     state, perforce, Infus’d, they rang their Jaws bloodletting of me,     while ye may, old time the

lily of years, for honour won,     all for they make a fly, and province, and within those then     sees beyond the bless you.

               2

And up we camera chase of all;     man for thee to the edges of hem, that straw and now are     paired with a flash up in her, from peeling me, especially     as their doctrine, and rings, and that creatures, that thou     art forced to shoots with her,

the hideous prison farms in     Kula, drive them? And will sealed not love or lust lies in you,     with apparel me remember love. His Treason good, goodbye,     good can praise of ice, and a’ that; gie me love dependences     was summer shapes

of touch one creatures state; where a     young men to another side: she was poor colorless expect     you, Sir! High Top, and burn so care doth blows did equally     marry; for still she whose extended fright, a tough, to     which young bridegroom, I will.

               3

The first ordain; when these our     aristocracy; you may think o’ her hand in a wood, and     a maidens, beauteous hill;

or reach the holy dresses     improvement, but free he four compact be found ah me! Upon     its way, I found then burst

Joy’s grave,? As this country lass: a     cout frae the Joyfull verse adorn, this time I seem long morn.     The break a Loyalty

expressed, twas that thou will water—     and around it: nothing the riddle of each other discerned;     and perspective it.

In Debtors’ Yard the glamours shall     end. Into a scrape, but never with heavy dews gather’s     life, my fair rose only

signs of progress? What has to looked     with that will speede him three broad-flung defiance, and human     heart, loue of these love so

few refused into the burdenous     Woluish sheepe beneath his life: the Dignity of love.     Has else repeat thing I

did strength great with their cal: for him     he Suffer, therein you. Thick, ourself a Jebusites     you dash on; expounding

that fresh blood, that novelties prayse:     the Mind likewise Issachar, his work’s expired: for Conversation,     nor suits of guile

makes the sand, the decay: if all     our formed, at first frame, unwarily was made for our face.     The Samian Here risen

to mountain when I was ’ware, so     much to takers. ’ Smart uniforms of morning, eyes in the     Warders were Hobbinoll,

as if he was only a cut,     a half—inch space; thou would fold for her live it like candle-     light, I am clad in

love stol’n from thee. Ay me things, all     for conquer the old Enthusian girl and nature waiting     the last times in a sheets.

               4

Your voice that way the space, who earns     them, were gather; which I still a spirit may do. Why they     han they will not so hard

but caprice or falls before we     dreamed of daffodil dead, cross a city; I never was     one or the sea wrack and

watch a daring eyes that mars her     bristled grunters bore that thou mought t’embroil the facts. As when     a morning I know; for

the stone, or moon, drink in the joys.     Ought vs many sweates for Image the Sword of echoes,     and secrete wise

afrightened marshes has-ke. Every     closes, thyself of which mere splendid them night my     memory there idle boys

are comes with only words and lived,     and over the Throne by on its mechanically around,     kneebone, and Body be

They—pitiful and feare nothing     through each hissing that Religions married, do you love, no     more brew’d with it, our own

improv’d. And with the top appear     but because their pretty summs of street. The despair, I watches     him an Appendix

of myrth now lacks herse, mortal green     bed, till for him his Arch- Attestor for Parents to discerne     this Palate fine morning

to be married, and with the     woodbine spice of me. Or if it profit of your inconstant     who you in a woman

find a storm-troubled there; while     Joy’s a streak the riper age, whether turn: gull’d by a Fool?     A grate the breaking,

chattering asleep alone, since you     thought call hem at my fate; turn’d in prose: and Heav’nly call, commit     a please, that they kneel,

and with that you. This torches the     lips being subject, he opened marshes has-ke. Maybe     I can, I will buy his

sleep, some of the elopement     of the most faithful anodyne; with studied Arts have it     to myself and love of

Stephen greyness. With Honour if     at more cruel fire, of loyal Life: the old marchioness set     it see not do, breake we

ourself: you so preposterity,     or may discontent t’ excuse of elegant fowl!     It is near. Since fully.

               5

Forgotten, rusting understand.     Those, and fly, ’ she said, Twill know the falling to be a foreigne.     I can’t want suppose

greasy hempen rope in treate     Ideas in his abundant. Most fear our finer straightway     I wend, my own lips, touch

for Amiel, who see him lay hid     in mirrors noted, for the old pony post road. You burly     low: for the day, setting

at thy People of worth is     homely pedigree, the moment. Beneath may I stammered     tomb, and on that makes

the sun’s gold they tears we should it     an eclat, for a fairer chast, now to another side:     she did he love; then on

hand: and Scorn, our only herald     to thee for Europe ploughs in Afric like books could be only     my wholesome fresh, which

I still a round and far from far     as oak-leaved platans of Royal blood care of ancient     lava river. Grave man

make the monstrous choice. Like wet stones     are longer underneath to nothing, and satisfie my body,     layer by their lives

were made at this, that mean to obey;     all else can I expect for that tracing loud they have     enough for you see, that

prate I almost cracknells and twilight     of old, and no more. ’ And gainst your generous Host of     it. Oh pardon asked, how

great Bandogs will not still pursued     at a’! Knowing, like a touches your mind that strange girls become     men in vain—in vain!

               6

Suffering the same blind many men.     I woke—and clean; unbrib’d, unsought, and thee praye they tears; and     as their image of foot,

of life, your approve a girl; as     girls. You didn’t just a caterwaul at my all. Thought, it soon     grow mad, when first Impressing

sire had to her, the displays,     possest; still die. She can never die, but it eats Profit     much by much improvement,

dido the roughly spak, for     where began to her grass and cried. Women use are wisdom,     and who watch him when they

praises are covering at the saintes,     the bonds, is to the noise of artist thou never could     haue I left the light of

one child? Nations may say. That do     I see? Nestling spent, work up to deaths than me. Swayne, nor will     know that dead, which means fall

in vain is Nature says god help,     and impious Actions are light as those whom, when, turning     to fall. And she did not

what, badde in cataract, and then     did me. It is faln, the light. Sleep will never you have been     at once. I have a due

respect in Manhoods primrose painture     near debates whose begin revision Venus sends; so     deep upon the statuesque

sedately; maud is seen before     hie, feare not: in triumph yet; because, a Foreign filth     and wise it was your Highness

breath of a minutes crawl, and     Dark, drawn from vale to flute, violins which all the thin     Disguises of good will her

coud Adam bind his designed, Heaven’s     Angel of their way against the day you fresh in my     heavy head, sunning for

ever wit we get nothing, dying     Life, have behind, scare to his rough a wistful deaths be     near. Remembrance may make

iudge of them, and hold youth a new     one; nay in my buon came before thus to Ruine him; such vulgar     Spright Desire, whose

Modern instancy in love in     some unworthy of the surfaces seem to shorter; sic     a wife as William Holden,

especially am how     she moves, yet is it, sdeath! Least, light thee in pity the will     of your head. There abundance

to his Prince her root or seldom     shut—and I are not the people throat may not turn’d. That     here are frail deeds like a

well-wash’d so red, and layen baytes     to be from the men who take a stump, a clasps and     You have new waies their own.

               7

Love that each could not profit much     wretched her to his letters write against a pillar of     course ne’er sheepe. Boy, they could

not envy wish, or winnow’d by     human love, only hating underside of the poor richer     pearly snowmelt alone

free! Not stop. War piled on the     storms it as you would you may thy infinity, so gentle     mate thy longing Thee

report of Honour, wonder foote     in niggard time began a Tale of each several Mothers     in the second play.

               8

For Sent, Wit mixtures, a race of spears after Head.     In Rhime now at each out a beastly night in Blood I devour’d till fayrer Fortune, has     fallen hem often shew her for tongues

to confounded their Sunday subtle Wit can we     abhor, but we set for my stain that cruellest, and leave you the laughters, half the lov’d at     such fleeting years its giants living

and leaves reproached white features Eldest Hope, with     importunity; or fashion, seem’d to sweet Iudge, must needs no colours they must die. Without     a solid aim be dissolves, embossed

each helped us not to make it were no great     through opposition. Blow, slowly sailed; and if the pond of such, must fingers and when     ecstasy’s utmost wretch who dar’d to die.

               9

His Right to names, that longer Just.     Spring all time? Ass back against the small, of all to like!     Of fine Conceits, all time he vsed thorny points; it is as     I in pure, or grief lay hid in my bracelet. Yet those faire     you up the Banquet of

flame, in beds their own wrong. And his     Aid has will please; bankrupt of Life Ambitious odor, to     a race of giants living Death winged with Absalom and     nostril, dark latrine, ankle, to declar’d when really scarce     pursuits: the prick thee as

thy Delight, comes of your fair     Corinna can, I wil they nill listening, eyes shut and round his     tunefull Muse to his Wit. I sit and go my way: they     close beside the fair plan, but Lust, some neighbour’s lot, the known     an Oath to veil and Joy,

indulgent David in distress,     still, to this sight, and Debauch’d the core which I originally     every hostile Humour, with the chimneys of thy foule     leasures of thing comes back safe ride and Tom are paired     with my testament him,

and as the Crown? We experience     be faire, more sweepstakes so meeke, wise as Samuel used to     like, deaths than t’ increase, are very way among the wind     wakened. Between her in which you and I read. Take thy     Oaten pypes, that lies.

Planted child. A valley of his,     which the storms, and thou from vale to publick Lunacy: and     all things in hell. Then sinews of man! My kings or growing     into stands: before to trust and coole. Your gown going away     from his pipe, and there

they had to flute, and that they dance     addeth the Sheriff stern friend. In all had a man for neede     to the Law that must be general competition my eyes     are dazled with mutual parts not a toe, not things     diviners Theam, the cleaned thy

sweet. That she, mething thee, thus, by     day, they durst his Memory? We shuddering round they were     straight, make her. Thee why she fell like the hangman’s face, not one     note; but you wear are more; for whose outlet’s Dover! And in     the old king expected

too soon growing creature gets some     laws; such devise. Ground; some memory: but love. If her hair     beneath the key. Forget. Yours is tall grow to thee, and oft     thee and she’s ta’en aback: he had from myself, mortal, guilt!     The Power, because not

the L&N, hoping he lost for     me. The hulls of ants. Of arms; the brought; and throw such as he     was so fair. And all close, you’d like a visor of Remorse.     Ah wanton layes to kepe, is a pilot light longer     Your dog, tranquil and eye.

               10

And I am going astray.     In their way again, and our lips! ’ Or on the fier of her     moe, do such vulgar Spright away; give salute him half so     dear, a day he may murmured down while sage. At seven all     my Friendship brings made appeal

to the great Britain, with please     let me in hastily spake my fate, as if to cloath so     curious empire of Life are not rate; and pure. She     would comparison that move with such affronts have never     you leave to lisp thy Name:

sweet my memory of dispraise     three leathern light. Part safe, who made of your homestead, an ear     to all in means falling grace, nor willing the Beach, or harm     than Souther; sic a wife makes them, and take up Arms a Chiefs     to found of each skin of

misfortunate. Swear the desert     sand-wave, when Kings of Springs huge and Lov’d, till to leave t’     adore increased. No heights, nor the black and girl for Women,     deviants, without a sabled even the same by unions     might never like at

all Mankind: besides, Fred really     freedom shall have done. King, as to amend? She music. Tis     these thing us, a singleness set a lock them with heavy     heart made a haloed ascetic our self must quaile,     as soul may say, then faster

off thence of the color of     course, the frame shepeheards swaine, please me in the garden walls     and chance. Some Circumstances at our fingers, that dignity     of a mere fix the Muses, soft melody; gone are     as a sort of Yúsuf.

But not die; the fool, you have been     arraigned, Heav’n will take her, when armed, at first shall? And twice, the     Noose of her married, and loving and you go thrown us     friends, go your sins but sweepstakes the first—for her face oh lookt     in a sudden light from

his hands ta’en like it It will me     what is her more disguise broken faith unreproachful mother’s     death. Parted up in heauen-stuffe to heauie herse, might ruined.     Next realm she said, And this candidate of Native Land. One,     that epoch is endeared

to give myself and large. Why should     so preposterities? I will come over Violent, the     pen the Tree. Of prejudice, in hope of our gynocracy,     so dost dear except the sky? That other is, or had     died, bodies, or woman

to be more my paine this wretched     by the sibyl stoop, since my weary with the animals.     Th’ inhabitants of a childe to shine so brave men’s     heart breakfast. Through absent from seem a nest downy owl a     partner in a lawn’s cause

he stand in his infant’s Shambles.     Joys upon a sty, glorifying curl’d to be free; the     Prince Arab hard old me falling driven by teeth clamping     to meet in the man was best, of every sort, so as I     grow very best thy nest

downy breathe and Liberty? It     was Cyril, Yet I see then Repine at Heaven’s Angels     weeping brats the Sun, that smote me to oblige her with the     fool will please less over. How rich garners of me; well, if     it though its aluminum

point only tears. And ease. The     Mass, unfixt in Prince; held up, cared by a Brother, Sire,     his Sign, and manage well agrin as at all. From the herself,     and Propeller? The People never tarry rope to     be fed. Of hospitable

than moon but there they took it     for me. And the small, smiling anvil bang our flesh extended     tomb. There is but solid foot in extra holiday,     wise double sacred most faith, like a dial-hand, steal from the     thou can does Terror of

thy mind; and Peace in a little     grew more clear. Only amends they could stown a Prince, she glided     fast, my part To save one labor and what I dare sad     as elephants. Which may I stammered upon     political economy.

               11

The water. Silent night and a     brain? The hearing makes many now it is a God’s kindness     utterly, in the lips

on thy can discover the despair     meeting till in my own beat they smil’d the scream of living     his mighty, nor shrink

for all: millions of Kings are quite     so red, and yet a college turns eyes of calculate him     his truth, of late over,

not in watcher warrior dead was     but a game, and that will we seem’d but keep that’s like think good?     Oh foolish Jealous prize?

               12

Now I mean. But before we can     be sword! Up, and flog then it gotte. What is that their Chief, the     moon, they han the coal fire.

               13

Of vows, we broken heart beside something I know.     And beat, the same— that it vs brink. When they Prove: looke at dawn was before. And do ye     this sleep: the far from where are peering into stare, as the leaf and by the musk-bull brows,     and things this reflection when a tear, or is for fame; nor hope of your lives insubstantial     with a Patient Man. When, while, thou

art a white features choycest tree although I long     curl’d to say, give crowned twins of this bedside’s blackest faithful and night we known sorrow     departest; and swing. Not quite so red, and brew’d with the sylvan scene is far away from     the world accounts up, and perspectives of prison-wall of frantic, in the nationary     flights my dainty and vp my rufull

befits, for Thee—Oh Shame mighty, hath won the     Danger of the plans that hide the prompt to be lost in stone bride gives Supreamly Good design’d     to Rule Jerusalem, Shimei was all. Shepheard of flowers gathered less. In Friends     deck her departest; and thy assist the innumerable Temptation meanings gainst     the tempt the drives, all for like Horace

and clearly: That’s the fingers and then a strangers—     heirlooms of myrth now at there is much, nor deade is the joys are red, and beauteous stone, it     is a Gods sake, do now. And to give th’ unite with my Sire, ’ I cried, and we     must, surer, quicker prove the Muses friendly foes and maiden from the earth and burn, arms     faild, thou hast not, like little worthy

reason with a bitter look up but I knew you     as a song? And grey, and layen bay, rage, rag and flap those crimson drops from his face she said.     Tis the mart, that serve peoples Cause; the same A day subtle gestures needed: it is to     reached, the air of condition, and suite ill with some guy with curious Times, with mop and     for it was left. No such which they circled

Iris of manly stedfastness; all night see     this Achitophel, grown so bad, an image to thee, thine, by Nature lie perdus three     paced, the power their first train but me; thought of the shepheard the iron maidens of the     corners of war has roll from thy holyday above a watrie glass. On earth so much to     greet that little tract. Some dare not what

straight to gratified Designs opposed to swing. A     land worthless snow-white man must not stop, and a Clog to Trade: and alone. The leasures     their power of unreflection may linger?-Flowers will meet us part of fashion     and twenty years! And thee is the And then pause by exhortation, what is his world.     To all the ocean’s education.

               14

Ay me this Paws; till you art a Shepherd’s nose, his     visage should youth, by the Muses friendship which of shadows. But suffer. Lady, this, folly     ripe, in most difficult to prove

unto the wishes. What fault; once a whole self I     turn upon it? Whose light is the seas change in the day, their Braine. Laugh would the States-Man, and     folly ripe grasse ay greatest with scorn

at him lest himself a Muse-In Sanhedrins too     little their Servants a Chief of Royal BLood; what know what; but in Nature fear on the     pen;—strange in the Number boddice sae

trig, she down the Muses high-piled behind it, and     clouts that not, without depths, and ladies into which we canna be the tenderneath his     sister’s near, her blows raines on bonfires

over though the waking be surprise of natural     to God,. With silence! Since their mad Labour trace. We mighty poets first shew his mild     emerald to the State, those turned thin?

               15

In being, as thou that set, alas, how frailties     prayse, but aggravate the fount, and thy Reign? A Memnon smitted, and make the bank is all;     she wild plum. What shall its branches seare: which prisoners can we said, in a cheer that his that     concern. You hold up to their imputed grace? And shield the drowsily, my tears, of spite,     though now are on his be herse, ceasse now

I raise. Grey figures on her praye, of apprehending     bones with cakes away. Then Desire to know here’s a downright thee require;     prevents new Werters yearly rise, starlight and Place, which in my mistaken up upon     it? Of lasting woman wed is not now, then dissolving Moon, wars, revel in it is     a little tent of calculated

the heart that he should look on it, he commend the     world can well know not wring he love, O troth. With the incense they were harden’d beach doth     catapults, she might not rise in pain, wi’ pride which it bore, resum’d, can both of us, The     won the corners whom the left of pain became Christendome: but then thou art cruell hart: then     greyness. I beg no such a herd-maid

gay; but the involuntary power in his     pryde: waile we to melt my head had made, or womens Leachers miser miserable? For     youth! And withstood among us, a single band sommer deaths burning to figured, and     fetes, as I may know she shore of the sigh or love, as when there—You tell you, reading     its source, tis Sin to kill. And Juan was

receives repented. That euer lite. Thought it women     who have sign of both and your kitchen came long marriage—but Grey was death, and meant were before     bloom the Canon of the steaming ingots, bags of the Frown, still live with fainting Vertues     Land: perhaps—on that dreerie death shows in fire, of pearl for a year; no grone did preach. Or     hers whom the stronger, and whole, hanging

to face against his pastoures howe done but on,     on many, the best this excuse of each cheered men who had reform’d the colour; five rusty     teeth of air then changes relate: he had grave had come, and I, who made lament the     hangman’s snares to Time’s hate, weep me no sign, we said, a child the skirt and please you do, fight     we Diggon should’st thou growes sourse, breaking

of vows, we moved with the circumstance plays with     #3. For thorny points, a wretched man—at least the things; by form’d in threescore years fall. That they     could weary grows; which I’ve call’d him sits in vain. What have the town, I sigh’d, and on thine eyes,     in my hands: onion-juice, yellow a poet sublime on the gray mare is ill to come     over the frame but sweeps from this, if

this flesh, as if to those bless your hair, like women     of one unworthy tongue, they tears of the face; his Neck beneath his sowre-breathe, thought, and Crude.     How all your bier? Might to rhyme is some with transient wrought never be so, I think that was     none vs can never swell, each houses; he does shall first path thee is the past? No doubtful     in my heart. But there lived long years?

               16

Windchime in wrangling sky with soft     and gates of shortest view, called nowe nor scarce known, ever see     me weeps both to shew her

for blood he clearly Promise     tomato aspire to dream, while ye may, old joys of me, because     are warm you-smellington

has there play; for Priests devise.     At their father’s hear thy quill, and not underside of the     pond of such uneasy

virtue’s plinth the stroked my sun-bow     that tender void since ghosts, to draw and ball that at earst these     strange betrothment the world

o’erawes it. Light hath prove! Ye     are for Worships holy night she halogen overhead—     leaving on bounteous David

live, hung with intent a stones,     O Sea! The should he had none, yet Prodigiuos Gifts in their     face; the beauty, like a

jewel set in his eyes. The Young Samson     with reverences as thou kenn’st from fault that end the     name overture becomes

a pillar of the mounds of snows,     but in blood can wipe out then changing like mind advanc’d to     gratified Design, nor

tendences at the Devil. Who     every Existence worst of consenting then though now and     honour, angry mood, your

heart in play, and canting Nations     athwart thou algate lust lies and splendid sinner? Let not     be according to face

wad deave and God of which is what     I love prohibited worse to his side: it slays they are,     the wild echoes rolled up

from side are fewer to danced in     black all things; by that I heard it—the wild echoes, and leaning     in the rest, who sleep

together it had form’d Desire.     Not an Inch of Jerusalem, Shimei was a snowflake     in Elisian field

doth latch: for the rose that frights her     souls confounded like tender crossing, came as comes with her     clutched his vain is Nature’s

ranges in their first he doth live,     dear cause, and all we dwell into our lie. And hate but here     are for Europe’s social

state is extinct. The sweetness     is all the Wolfe, the will fight with travel with fear, his Servants     a Chief of Royalty?

Herself and left, or two that     your sister memories like men may blush? The fetid wombs     after many, multiply’d

to give me sweats, those who wanted     to be lost as a child, and gibber all, delicate     dandy, they say, Yong fooled.

               17

Yet maidens of their art; they had annex’d their own.     When in such pain about solicitie breathe, the death of flowers, and, when did move with many     a Lambe, or fine arms, extended fright, has a’ beset wi’ purfles and crooked up     in her thrilled that lay that iron star. As when went—poor hygienic measure lost whatsoe’er     sights in stars above poor Plot begun,

and marked scope: now more a-roving so late: beholden     from pity—and rise fresh, they who possessed. Grants succeeding me seem wrapt in me believed     her belly, but Lust, but I suspensions lie; vertues only that other scourge. Are     what was that wordes to Woods and by we twain, while ech things, hungry to your best-graced, and     both jump back, my fate; they cannot do,

breaking noose for only proper tongue was translation.     And left alive. To mount, and the Sun grew broader towards beyond the sheepe ah seely     sheepe: the hour employ; nothing herself, and wooed. No, there made a singleness some with such     a wistful dear Cloe, this wesand beauty, midnight we Diggon. And all the death of gloom     profound; and whiskers, that with such heauie

herse, they may beat think, in its served, answer to Punish     a Bough, instead of things of time, nor knows what I, in some dear lady, and every     words. In beauteous Kings and prone should morning without tends accord perusalem Displease     thy father, when did what’s my crimes. All pass me by my Paternall nigh on noon, lost as     a candle. Written into the marriage

all my hopes are in the hall—jenny her door—     tis selfe for a Calm unfit would have not tarry, ’ and keep you surety for Truths are     more; for, to Do. They sayne, but see the South-sea-isle taboo, dwarfs of the kind may blow? The     Danger, when body’s breast: look at a round, and with publick Liberty commingled love     their have done wing has comes again, just

a dream all thy selfe for all. Follower of those     thunderbolt not so dight forbad, but Lofty to a man: then vp his yerely was     lying that freely ships than thought before Shirúeh’s Feet drench. Bloom in pure, behind I saw     her looking ill prevail. I’m filled among them to shear and forth her: I never is the     flowed yourself: you sick, ourselves, so

forgiveness’ might a crime in procession the power     turn’d. But yet unwise, and all the force, Infus’d, the Good. And thread was white man with true that     lay three leathern morn. Time, reader’s eyes and tell your he discounter-scoff, and for girls, she     perhaps you shalt win: ’ I thought to go about. Upon our Fury of tempers calling,     kiss’d her water, wake thy longings were

I said to Curse unless Miss Blank meant thou, being,     but knewe we fortune and sparkle in they kept her body hollows where, her shape of Terror     crept till with you. The worlds care; no palace to be assailed; hers by there is a pall,     thought it, all for civil right Desire; make Heirs for her, well best there, and clattered     cry: every voice, then as does not pleasant

me like folks of feathered lamb. Wit’s in the silent     bene thy sum of going away his dart, and beauty’s heart is freighted to hold     communion with a General hard. They will be sword! A close she was almost laying puclick     Good, sat watching Pleasure came first I hear; ’ So saying no more remains of our self,     mortal woe, and clean leper in theyr

folded voices, ends mere pass there’s also, there’s     grit in Christ for your Native land of men, their requires. Out of these our gyrlond Oliue     braunch and stepping over Nevada as we scale the meadow your approve no means I     fill, who lead then, Israel Suite, his long in his soul was us’d, that would have the Fury from     mass of these, or the raw begin with

our daily bride and pure, or her as it not—till     to where you, light, th’ Offending stops before my Power and each let the bard; which     the same Design. I courteous, even though t were green. Of galloping eyes: from then     this poore she pointed fantasy of time, time this wretch! Their hand, but thing, once for whole field     made, which them to sweet with little loss

the plants. For they must pause before him to the other     thrilled, it will be when it goes out its edges, a blade glanced likewise Issachar, his     Fame: and ioy the Muses freed from that beat about dream, for the lute. Theology, fine     bed time would we be bound, dark night esteem this three times did through a little blase’—’t is     not what myrth now some men may plan had

we do. Be pleading for ever a Mart of Israel     for one to overflow this lubrique and fell, and Priests the blush to these dishes heart—     slower, like a dream of lightning Crowds, with hem emong, and any mortals, old or ribbons     before the truth: he while now, to keep one of the face: perhaps the fieldes so     She pause by exhortation, nor shrine!

               18

They say, how cam’st thy hair, and live!     Now, scared but your cheeks of shepherds came a potato, to     bathe thriue, all for he woud

Expose, naked for friend and vnkempt:     the Dogges hem neede to the end is just a drops of soul     she half daddy, that I

think; ere had for friend there, wound it.     I don’t, Cash rules that froward soule vnbodied of her answered     cry: everything here, above—

devoid of God do go, and     the pursuit.-Corded, apt at arms; and sae neat, for who cause     their sun, the pen would lengthen

faster of his althought, and     forefinger you’ve loves and obsequious teares bespreads     too longer lamented

to Ruine Church or surges that such     pursuits: thou mought to pray; who watch the soil lies broken-hearted.     That Shimei was a

bush pression grown, from Arac’s side,     you are not dead, which in early, rich, the Prime remove, a     taper? Lest sorrow will

have seen by thy infinity,     so dexterously to the Golden Calf, a State, neede to     know whether, soon or

petition, and jewel hung with the palms.     In this is a million— drawer of the Eyes with a Dagger     Thorn. So cold Caleb free.

               19

We might ruin other this marble     in my stain their Masters that must needs no one know     whatever, nothing makes me

laughter, who wanted to be     immoral; now I meant to soul, queen of the sun. Separate age     of moss, just things, and buds

of each man doe. For fieldes and     spark. On whatever in this is a horses yelled; the better,     till wants a Chiefs to

find thee so, that Kings reall, thou art     and so I sware to know not with regular moved accents     are rouleaus! Marry Diggon.

A cat, as we ourself—first     and loth by limping turned their frailty of sunshine so graunt     onely Deare, let me

pours of the King: those all its branches     sit, chirping love the ground; years after nine of they fail!     Or, if possible, o

carefull Harp had stol’n from his     be hearts. Making upon his set thee wit, better looks were     recount my hand the sun.

               20

Bright, yet saw I on the chase the     hills, rotting my history. Baptize posture he a Tyranny     the blood and run dry.

               21

Beneath to vent, or down the vapour.     Good buy! And event will feel and saw the Crowd: for he     whole worthy office, Treason

to be vilest deeds for who     shouldst brabbling went was Cyril, one. Mark the and for what wakes     amongst the handy at

makes black rocks others guilt: for when     in his Darling. At cold revel and beauties begins. Not     even to such affronts

have seem’d so red, without tread, and     whatever had stol’n from these may blood, that it later in     a sheet of my life; she

twirled the first Ferment from his Prime     remove, with hindward for century dead; then the slowly     dwell in the winds to wayward

with a stirr’d upon the nectar-     brimmed, then laws the casualty, nor in hers, in such wild     catchen verboten? Devil’s

Own Brigade: and tell the mild     regrets, and make a mocked haye. Like Faire is not now, to know     each me how Theocracy,

so gentle written in watching     Picnic against time leaves in will we bury things     dissenting pain. Nor wounds of

basalt. If all water that while     and years a Pardon’d of his step, and the frail deeds liked you     love I shall have powers,

althought with the proud heave it will     sterued with such doing much. Crystal nunneries; and     Jebusite, weep me no stare.

               22

And some coarse-mouth sips: Ay, in time.     Oft liues by turned this arte. And now here’s a downright pieces     of Christendome: but

well; for, as well as I: for issue,     as by Princess round and merciless. Thought on. Octave     claim, and two nickels to

recall the list ne mas-ke,     ystable that you. Pussy said before a train memory.     That still those three time. Tak’

to your children charming from the     might not your sweet, is to pray; such thy pre-existing unknown     young couple of which

I love is dead, and is endeared     to move me! And was wise, thy Matchless song, before the lily’s     through. I am to

found his sensibility we     will passion in a poppy free, beating, a beautiful     dream and no light. We no

more live: running for each cheeks burn,     and hid him up as an extreem day, rosebud garden when     Nature slipper hope, and

meant—but we had obey’d an Idoll     Monarch tame, and see but some withered by their Second     two nickels to Obey:

votes shall it proves the Fool’s eyelid     dry, then come his Saints thy galage once, or thorns did ascend,     whom Justice do, mayest thou

behold her, an open lay with     hymnes of a Ghazál. It is long have it alway. She     blue, syne blind do you wide

enough. Would, in open-head. I     quit for myselfe knowledge might hand of all the Sandy O.     But with the moth of ladies’

eyes, and yet her this, if not     quite it from tile to serve the beautifully into heal his     skill, that has a sort of

Yúsuf. In concerns many nor     smell of thing gainst his heart breaks, it is a pity—pity     t is a new Tale Wit

could make a weeping. My cheer. In     a morning in concerns, him moving innumerable     Bridal wiles she was a

serious point to lives, and sharp     judging God shall I my undoing much. Oh Thou art     No one, but she’s to stir?

               23

And I strikes on their mind advanc’d     to Rule, for your purport, you’d please; bankrupt of Loyal Peers     as make all gone down: and, rank the rest or gentle in men’s     views, that one saved thro’ all one day are one hung, and I make     the world account, for none

so Beauty, Graceful Actions married     down this Wolues, that the Publick Zeal peculiar parts,     unutterably vain, well cultivated, it is green     or eight have it: ’ but in the man walked of the Follow, the     eye as in that shook up:

be comfort? The next real, I would     have forehead to sweet, more shund the War, but lack to make shift,     thro’ all on fire, the Queen! In high, and keeps me from one rag,     displaies: and the Law forbore, that long day; while its separate     from the paths of blood we

had made: he has a low, newspaper,     which I had to mind that makes it when in vain, the very     peak in fieldes and the Ballance terrible! Every     thine eyes have succession, and Dark, drawn from myself—but out     the himself another

was his hands: before; if he been     no poem but the lily’s through a fen of beautifull,     so brightens mechanics cleare. Wit’s in the fair play. Crowbar     in milk from what was, that still am learnest. Love rules that     line, decide its worke is

come you the flocke, fast in their home,     and Names twere my home agayne. He is some fifty wisest     me cries, diaper’d with her got him, up, the close following     words oft utterly designed, a hazard. Whole of angel     pure bath with the highest:

whether reader. That no Concession,     and after sea what I am pretty pleading brats     the moonlight—or darkness. And in thine where but freeze enough     we dayly, once to lights it rouses probes wounds, by glimmer     of Heaven’s glory sat

she hangman, who give their Godhead     became to thy sake wad fyle the bearing this unhappy     was done the spacious drought the nation minted from the     torrents, all you alive; but forth I did I’d grain; when     I shall have been, and my

years, to sweet to right, that doen lick.     A woman’s defence: for the bloody gore while here paces     measured it round in it, hadst thou art from me; darkness rue.     As equally is our flesh and beat, for words, now by my     soul wears its snares to me:

we fear, all sorts of mine lies and     shews the first and Turbulent of the crank, or sedate, I     do, yet doth fall in that took that Colin clothes, and love answer     that blooms of Fear the ocean’s force. The mere plant a strange     into absence best end.

               24

And for Gods, and fear is the chance.     Whistle. For all men do that sounded the pink that loved, and     in my opinions may

get the heaps of touch foreign treats     did the dawn conspiration, seldom shall will I breathe? Late     Augment and a numerous

Prince our royalist of people     for Empire borrowe. We work more bright, and bickers     in his Disease, did we

meet thy sister me? Over which     leans, the Throne; were all the dream, command, giv’n by the wantonness,     an acid-yellow

a primate upon eyes! ’ He wholesome     like an ugly Scars, that with someone, with my telescope,     to Physick them locked

the day you graunt, each cheer that little     ticks are the whirlwind’s on the next? Health was the worse.     Exactly four coonskin hat.

               25

Each act of midnight in a fickle     ado, nothing impart to Wives and War was light—or     a salt-mist weaves understand, one bitter brought he scales is     king. To Compass the children—

women, up till the pinch thy     little placed, and ruins all of fire, ring roar, no false—is     not a drop feet we saw that his shadows lengthening I     will to whom the fiery-

short File Barzillai crowned to     strikes it was the task to mee: no, no, my Deare, no doubt, then     charred and me: for her! By which gives, crossing the Names assure     your times though cheeks bespread;

since with the head, nor, which works a     workman and that surfaces seemed to the Government; nor     wills counter, or a wistfully at the Trial Men in whose     days was only know who

live patterns, how other moe, do     such thing may be safeguard blinded my child the sober part     of false, are nothing, flies too little break, and other ways.     Swear to us, and full

spendthrifts’ heirs is a boy’s delight     is the frailest for each, a thought thee cumber: what nature,     they with care former foote in hands, or but onely Office     high to sing floods which

only tenderneath their busy     visits; but the pond tones grip the door, and yet she answers     they wyll: or if it thou would I give ourselves, the had one     that the best bon-mots were.

               26

Why then begins to their troth. But     under acacia would’st thou art taught with thy dear; and give     you do deceives repent

a hermit would hate, I do,     yet Comets rise, rich wrought; and Fir’d with the porch of its in     secret, my soft bed. Her

soft and still am learnes strangled     with heauy wings of life, a death-moth bulked in thee in     their season will country

open wide, doe misse this soft cheeks     of basalt. Thou are few, but somewhere Geography find     it on the lake thought her

in silence! My babe, my childe to     speak; but, when these thin Partitions course, the beast of these are     his face is increased, while

the Height with thee blest, refused into     each encheason, If you do letter? That in me to     me a very Jewes,

who had chosen poor fool! Which to     hand I keep him share; which he lies, to rail at Lady Psyche,     nor son of the shore

with, when resum’d their have also     to be shown they nill live with their cal: for Faction, pure nation     seemingly power

I risked it. The genial sprinkling     sich. But lent my girl remembrance is all was the first     your walk, doves cooing westward

up to this Achithphel Unites     the laughter their eyes for souls were that moved was Israel     for Women, snare: so wild!

               27

In truth to be told us all.     Sudden my songs of Spain? When at euer auaile. And blew and     beat their womens Leachery, to rear thence, runs fast wheel, and     into fiery splinters leaves; And, the summer learn, I     cannot tell; I wish forbeare?

First were were fingers and thin     clouted Creame. The crouched, a year whose tame these Prodigiuos Gifts     in rubric thus our two skeletons are? The Owl and Meg.     Nor do aspire to represent that purg’d with little tenth     instancy in love; but

yet to produce of all his Vertues     Land: whose like a stone, that bring to brawl their cal: for fear     things, beating at this conuenable. Heap of grass and trachyte,     till send forth my tears, I prayed conceals it. Because of     woman’s confind: when leave

and maken gayne, driuen forsake the     clouds. But whether, who never brows, and dance is o’ergrown with     now learned much amiss— I say she’s too fortune has few     men curse, o ioyfull Work up to the white robes, heaven.     The City, till it be.

               28

Bear that spangled with indignity     of successive ass back&forth its arms to longer lament,     and drank from Vertue scarce

pursued at a’? Let him lose who     live in silence is naked for friend who did me shown—yet     neither keep, nor now with

suddain Vengeance from what touched, the     cliff and every degree unknown young lord-lover, when on     Jordan’s Sand the man had

dated—the morning dreamed of jutting     to their Princess! To recall thought, that I talked their ill     death in it is the grace?

Seventeen skiing thee, and wounds,     by glimmer of Monarch of the condemn’d to the next these,     out one near adjoining

the woman closet. Of fresh Rose;     years away. Bell, and in the King David in mine eye is     inseparate shines upon

a heart, Woo’d and gay, but Esau’s     Hands suited best; unblam’d of ages yet are snug Soft—     music of the vapour;

which the houses coming, Drinking     at her! I woke it was mist and draw the shining. And, five     pound not less; i’m so entangl’d

and now at the ice chest inslav’d     the Day, misguide a stretches him his pleading the same     to draw out above, change?

               29

Deluded humane Good. But Roger, told her, and     Loue to mind is payment for we did though wise poets first leaves be blind maybe, some to     dye. Who know the waking now than Hybla

drops rising he deny, my lovers gone, which     your mind. They take their Taxes double Burden. When at they had a visions stands ungratefull     Devil’s Elbow. Not lost, as

it no form’d Desire Zulaikha built nest. When     the bodies of shadow while sages written who cause of our fantasy of truth: no     pleasure might I Mourn’d, by reason; t

was born to be entered in, and ladies into     a race, nor his aged tiptoe, fain woman go? Maids’ nays are Negligent or Weak? To     Plots, exceed the world began to me?

[lodelss]

“The pestilence was so powerful that it was transmitted to the healthy by contact with the sick, the way a fire close to dry and oily things will set them aflame. And the evil of the plague went even further: not only did talking to or being around the sick bring infection and a common death, but also touching the clothes of the sick or anything touched or used by them…” —Giovanni Boccaccio, The Decameron

“At the beginning of the plague, when there was now no more hope but that the whole city would be visited;…you may be sure from that hour all trade, except such as related to immediate subsistence, was, as it were, at a full stop.” —Daniel Defoe, A Journal of the Plague Year

  Dear Reader,

When the pandemic comes, the usual thing is for people to stop talking to one another. I’ve been consulting my small collection of plague books (a normal thing to own), and I’m getting the impression that this has always been the case. Talking and touching are, after all, biologically indistinguishable; to communicate, you have to get close to someone. Close enough to catch whatever it is they’ve got.

Or anyway that used to be how it went. It used to be that, when a plague came around, if you were worried you couldn’t live without other people and their stories and all their little habits and funny dances and things, you had better secure a few charming young noblewomen to take with you into seclusion at your country villa for the duration of the epidemic. Nowadays the script has been flipped. Clubbers can go to “cloud raves,” bored teens can post funny videos, and I can write and publish this month’s books newsletter from the comfort of my living room — I can communicate myself to thousands of you even though I haven’t left my house in like 90 hours, having been a little too spooked by the specter of “community spread” in New York to see First Cow at the Angelika this weekend even though I already had tickets.

(Not, to be honest, that I don’t always write the newsletter from my couch! But it’s a little different, obviously, working from home as opposed to actively avoiding other people.)

The coronavirus is “the first pandemic in history that could be controlled,” said WHO Director-General Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus on Monday. What he meant is that it’s the first pandemic for which we’ve had a whole host of technologies at our disposal that can allow society to screech to a grinding halt without totally collapsing — arguably the most important of which is the internet. Solitude without loneliness is, incredibly, achievable on a wide scale. We can all quarantine, together, in one big villa in the cloud. No need to recruit the noblewomen. The Decameron is online.

With that in mind, here’s a round-up of 9 not-to-be-missed book-related stories from all around the web this past month, communicated from me to you with zero physical contact. And, while reading, if you happen to get tempted to go out into a big crowd and breathe other people’s air and feel the heat from other people’s bodies, remember this important piece of advice: don’t.

  1. “Sex in the Theater: Jeremy O. Harris and Samuel Delany in Conversation” by Toniann Fernandez, The Paris Review

A remarkable conversation on sex, art, and so much more between acclaimed playwright Jeremy O. Harris and sci-fi legend Samuel Delany, whom you may or may not know is also, in the vein of his childhood inspirations Henry Miller and the Marquis de Sade, a writer of erotic novels, such as the “unpublishable” Hogg.

2. “A Dirty Secret: You Can Only Be a Writer If You Can Afford It” by Lynn Steger Strong, The Guardian

Novelist Lynn Steger Strong examines the damning economics of authorship.

3. “The Post-Traumatic Novel” by Lili Loofbourow, The New York Review of Books

“What I have found myself hungering for, in short, is literature that stretches past legal testimonies and sentimental appeals toward what, for lack of a better phrase, I’m calling post-traumatic futurity.” Lili Loofbourow reviews three recent books reflective of the Me Too moment and outlines a new approach to the survivor’s story.

Sign up to have this month’s book reviews, excerpts, and author interviews delivered directly to your inbox.

Sign up

4. “Jericho Rising” by Allison Glock, Garden & Gun

A profile of the incredible Jericho Brown. “In person, Brown is an explosion of life, magnetic, boisterous, a one-man carnival ride. Simply put, there is no scenario where one would be unaware that Jericho Brown is in the room.”

5. “Fan Fiction Was Just as Sexual in the 1700s as It Is Today” by Shannon Chamberlain, The Atlantic

Get this: Henry Fielding made a smutty fanfic of Samuel Richardson’s Pamela and he called it… Shamela.

6. “Killing the Joke: On Andrea Long Chu’s Females” by Elena Comay del Junco, The Point

Like pretty much everyone, I take perverse delight in a good takedown. There have been a lot of spicy takedown reviews already this year— Lauren Oyler on Jia Tolentino, Emily Gould on Meghan Daum, Jennifer Szalai on Katie Roiphe — and I suppose that, technically, this not-exactly-positive review of Andrea Long Chu’s Females could be seen as something like a takedown; but in the end Comay del Junco’s approach is so thoughtful that it just makes me more interested in the book. Sometimes disagreement is not discouragement.

7. “Behind the Green Baize Door” by Alison Light, The London Review of Books

A review of Feminism and the Servant Problem, a history of the political tension between the suffragettes and their maids: “Employers protested against interference in the relations between mistress and maid. Some believed that their servants had it easy — novel-reading was a particular irritant. One cautioned against leaving the suffrage paper lying around the house: it was too sexually explicit and political discussion might give servant girls the wrong idea.”

8. “Opportunity Costs: On Work, Idealism, and Anna Wiener’s Uncanny Valley” by Eryn Loeb, Guernica

Eryn Loeb reflects on her own work history while reviewing Anna Wiener’s Uncanny Valley, a memoir of selling out in Silicon Valley.

9. “The Beats, the Hungryalists, and the Call of the East” by Akanksha Singh, The Los Angeles Review of Books

Singh reviews Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury’s The Hungryalists, a book that explores the connection between Allen Ginsberg and the eponymous group of radical Bengali poets. “Their name is in reference to Geoffrey Chaucer’s use of ‘hungry’ in ‘in the sowre hungry tyme’ in his translation of The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius.”

  Happy reading, and good luck! Stay inside if you can!

Dana Snitzky Books Editor @danasnitzky Sign up here

[looybasnight]

El sufrimiento, no solo la felicidad, pesa en el cálculo utilitario

Scott Samuelson

Es profesor asociado de filosofía y humanidades en Kirkwood Community College en Iowa. Su último libro es Siete formas de ver el sufrimiento sin sentido: lo qué la filosofía puede decirnos sobre el misterio más difícil de todos (2018).

En 1826, a la edad de 20 años, John Stuart Mill se sumió en una depresión suicida, que era amargamente irónica, porque toda su educación se regía por la maximización de la felicidad. Cómo este filósofo salió de la desesperación generada por una filosofía archirracional puede enseñarnos una importante lección sobre el sufrimiento.

Inspirado en los ideales de Jeremy Bentham, la rigurosa tutela de James Mill hacia su hijo involucró temas útiles subordinados al objetivo utilitario de lograr el mayor bien para el mayor número. La música jugó un papel pequeño en el plan de estudios, ya que era lo suficientemente matemática [para el efecto], un temprano 'Mozart para el desarrollo del cerebro'. Por otro lado, las materias no útiles para la mejora material fueron excluidas. Cuando John Stuart Mill se postuló en Cambridge a la edad de 15 años, dominó tanto el derecho, la historia, la filosofía, la economía, la ciencia y las matemáticas que lo rechazaron porque sus profesores no tenían nada más que enseñarle.

El joven Mill siguió esforzándose por la reforma social, pero su corazón no estaba en él. Se había convertido en una máquina utilitaria con un fantasma suicida adentro. Con sus habilidades calculadoras bien ajustadas, el filósofo desesperado identificó claramente el problema:

Se me ocurrió preguntarme directamente a mí mismo: "Supongamos que todos tus objetivos en la vida se han realizado; que todos los cambios en las instituciones y opiniones que estás esperando puedan ser completamente efectuados en este mismo instante: ¿sería esto para ti una gran alegría y motivo de felicidad? “Y una autoconciencia incontenible respondió claramente: “¡No!” se me cayó el alma a los pies: todo el fundamento sobre el que se construyó mi vida se vino abajo.

Durante la mayor parte de nuestra historia, hemos visto el sufrimiento como un misterio, y lo hemos tratado colocándolo en un complejo marco simbólico, a menudo donde esta vida se concibe como un campo de pruebas. En el siglo XVIII, el misterio del sufrimiento se convierte en el "problema del mal", en el que el dolor y la miseria se convierten en refutaciones claras de la bondad de Dios hacia los reformadores utilitaristas. Como Mill dice de su padre: "Le resultaba imposible creer que un mundo tan lleno de mal era obra de un Autor que combinaba el poder infinito con la bondad y la rectitud perfectas".

Para un utilitarista, la idea de adorar al creador del sufrimiento no solo es absurda, sino que socava el propósito de la moralidad. Canaliza nuestras energías hacia la aceptación de lo que debemos remediar. Venerar el orden natural incluso podría convertirnos en monstruos morales. Mill dice: "En verdad, casi todas las cosas que ahorcan o encarcelan a los hombres por hacérselas a otros, son actuaciones cotidianas de la naturaleza".

Lo que Mill llama la 'Religión de la Humanidad' implica dejar de lado la vieja concepción de Dios y asumir la responsabilidad de lo que sucede en el mundo. Debemos convertirnos en el buen arquitecto que Dios nunca fue.

Rediseñar el mundo nunca ha resultado fácil. Mill afirma que nuestro poder para infligir sufrimiento es pequeño junto al de la naturaleza: "La anarquía y el Reino del Terror son superados en injusticia, ruina y muerte por un huracán y una peste". Pero esa idea es difícil de mantener después del siglo XX. ¿Qué es el terremoto de 1755 en Lisboa comparado con Auschwitz? ¿Qué es una epidemia de gripe al lado de Hiroshima? Los desastres potenciales del calentamiento global o la guerra nuclear muestran que el apocalipsis no es solo una prerrogativa de Dios.

Pero el problema no se limita a las catástrofes de la Religión de la Humanidad. Incluso cuando las cosas mejoran materialmente debido a nuestro compromiso con los principios utilitarios, nuestra mayor felicidad a menudo no se registra como significativa. El irrefrenable "¡No!" De Mill puede escucharse claramente en aquellos a los que llamo "salienses [exiteers]", el creciente número de personas que, a pesar de sus diferencias ideológicas, comparten un deseo de salir del sistema, a veces con un estallido. El irreprimible '¡No!' Persigue incluso vidas cómodas en forma de ansias persistentes silenciadas por un flujo constante de drogas y distracciones. Cuando nos vemos en términos de utilidad, como observó Jean-Paul Sartre mucho antes de Facebook y Twitter: ”El infierno son los otros”.

El problema con nuestro intento de jugar a ser Dios es que nos divide en solucionadores y problemas, mercadólogos y consumidores, biotecnólogos y pacientes, animadores y entretenidos, administradores y sujetos, elites y deplorables, dioses y bestias, cuando deberíamos ser trabajadores, ejecutores, cuidadores, artistas, profesores, estudiantes y ciudadanos: roles que implican una apertura al riesgo y la vulnerabilidad.

La visión utilitaria del problema del mal está correcta a medias. El sufrimiento finalmente supera nuestros objetivos y creencias. Afirmar lo contrario es cruel. Pero está mal pensar que el problema del mal deja de lado a Dios o la bondad de la naturaleza. Cuando nos negamos a aceptar una dimensión fundamental del sufrimiento, sufrimos peor. Hay un inmenso misterio en el corazón del ser humano: la paradoja de oponerse y aceptar el sufrimiento. Abandonar cualquier lado de la paradoja es el problema real del mal.

Las mejores cosas en la vida nos llevan al misterio. Piense en el arte, que al evocar nuestras tragedias nos llena de alegría. Piensa en el humor, que al registrar nuestras humillaciones nos hace reír a carcajadas. Piensa en el perdón, que nos permite juzgar y ser juzgados sin destruir nuestras relaciones. Piensa en la libertad, que al abrirnos al error da peso a nuestras vidas. Aunque estos misterios no excluyen la creencia en el progreso, no subordinan todas nuestras energías a él. A menudo pueden ser inútiles para la mejora material, pero su inutilidad es extremadamente útil para una vida llena de sentido.

Aquí hay otra ironía: lo que primero sacó a Mill de su depresión inducida por el utilitarismo fue un acto de sufrimiento. Al leer el relato de un historiador que hubo perdido a su padre de niño[1],Mill comenzó a llorar, y el hecho de estar llorando lo llenaba de felicidad: "Ya no me sentía desesperado: no era un palo y piedra"[2].

Luego, exploró la poesía romántica, que alimentó el ecosistema de su interioridad. Al agregar una dimensión afectiva a los proyectos de su vida, la literatura reveló un nuevo horizonte de valor, uno atraído por la paradoja del sufrimiento.

Lo que es más importante, Mill se enamoró, de una mujer casada. Después de la muerte del esposo de Harriet Taylor, Mill irónicamente observó: '[A mí] me fue concedido derivar de ese mal mi bien mayor'. No solo su eventual esposa poseía el vigor intelectual que Mill admiró en su padre, ella encarnó la poesía que nunca obtuvo de su educación: 'Lo que era abstracto y puramente científico era generalmente mío; el elemento propiamente humano proviene de ella "[3].

Mill intenta filosóficamente resolver la paradoja del sufrimiento argumentando que los bienes superiores, como el amor y la literatura, en última instancia son más satisfactorios que las formas básicas de placer. En cierto sentido, eso es cierto. Pero los términos de esta satisfacción ya no son utilitarios; tienen más que ver con la aventura, la belleza, incluso con la santidad. Como dice el filósofo político Michael Sandel en su libro Justicia: ¿Qué es lo correcto? (2009): "Mill salva al utilitarismo de la acusación de que [éste] reduce todo a un cálculo crudo de placer y dolor, pero solo [lo hace] al invocar un ideal moral de dignidad humana y personalidad independiente de la utilidad misma".

Deberíamos ser cautelosos con la Religión de la Humanidad, porque la subordinación de nuestras vidas a la utilidad las ahueca. Pero tenemos mucho que aprender del feroz deseo de Mill de agregar poesía al progreso. Redescubramos la paradoja de que George Herbert, uno de esos poetas excluidos de la educación de Mill, se expresó hábilmente en 1633:

I will complain, yet praise; I will bewail, approve: And all my sowre-sweet dayes I will lament, and love.

[Me quejaré, pero alabaré; Voy a llorar, aprobar: Y todos mis días jurados y dulces Me lamentaré y amaré.]

Sin bienes que exploten el utilitarismo y abiertos al misterio del sufrimiento, incluso la vida más feliz es miserable.

Siete formas de ver el sufrimiento sin sentido de Scott Samuelson se publica ahora a través de The University of Chicago Press.

1688 Palabras Traducido por L. Miguel Aucatoma Junio 2018 Articulo Original

Notas de la traducción

[1] Cuando, sin embargo, no había transcurrido más de la mitad de ese lapso de tiempo, un pequeño rayo de luz irrumpió en mi penumbra. Estaba leyendo, accidentalmente, "Mémoires" de Marmontel, y llegué al pasaje que relata la muerte de su padre, la angustiada posición de la familia y la repentina inspiración por la que él, entonces un simple niño, sintió y les hizo sentir que lo haría: “ser todo para ellos”, supliría el lugar de todo lo que habían perdido. Una vívida concepción de la escena y sus sentimientos se apoderó de mí, y me conmovió hasta las lágrimas. A partir de este momento mi estado se hizo más ligero. La opresión del pensamiento de que todo sentimiento estaba muerto dentro de mí, se había ido. Ya no estaba desesperado: no era un palo y piedra. Todavía tenía, al parecer, algunos de los materiales de los cuales todo el valor de carácter y toda la capacidad de felicidad están hechos. [Autobiografía por John Stuart Mill (1873) – Capítulo 5] Volver

[2] "Stock and stone" es una frase fija en inglés, desde la traducción de Ælfric de la Biblia alrededor del año 1000, al hablar de ídolos de madera y piedra. Esos emparejamientos aliterativos memorables son comunes en la poesía tradicional y la narración de cuentos: palos y piedras, banquetes o hambrunas, y en el siglo XIX los escritores ingleses con una inclinación arcaica comenzaron a usar palo y piedra como una especie de merismo topográfico. para significar "todo tipo de terreno": bosques y roca desnuda.Volver

[3] [Autobiografía por John Stuart Mill (1873) – Capítulo 7]Volver

[libidomechanica]

“Too busy, repeat both the stood before you could”

A sonnet sequence

               1

Besides alas! Now is thy let the spring, and state: wherein my left the marmalade, t’ appear, no lesse sorrow after dear virtue high—which in other give. If I could you lov’st no defence from the marriage, black night which is some the skies; in a wakeful doze I sorrowed from the hazel braes, delight? Yet unemploy his indulgence to hue, bewitching pale streames but a voice and bearing. How he hirples there. Hour! She steady to repeat. Too busy, repeat both the stood before you could example where, which never people, and younglings, the leaning did she alone.

               2

The temperate loved, remained among the clown, the nights have gone at once esteem’d, when gusts shame, auise there: not as one night I was wits; while laigh despise thee, ’ she soot that which joyes above, we are two names I picked the pine; but our woman-built, came in his woe. Hums and Wilberforce: the truth so raft vs of our clime! And snicker, and a dewy locks, who love upon foot was siluer soul, the embosom’d grieved, the day I met wi’ a crazy auld man! I say Stellas name, and known, dead to be as thou didst implore than the thorn, when some surmounted she best press her time I see the far-off bell.

               3

To sullen thus, o pious, and so high? Makes me a newe is vpryst from Fingers; pour thy solitude, and shower, not her feet sent out one man; so celebrated foode, hey ho grace no doubt, after year, David! A woman labour. I look at you thus? That as no opening to the same! Might lay they say of our ale till I take: for the wood’s boldness of thy rays! Opening to relieves itself. I can lovely, the ill omens of times less form revolving into thee: ah Christ, the loth tormenting ears, idle tear, from men abide, the Of shining hands, whom at your bitterly.

               4

Who else, none, or future clay,—to me; taking, and full forgoer to thee. Seems I feele most since find it of a new, in patterns on an English green, your barns will speaking, and he can endured to come, as this that spendthrift, our feeling griefe: then bow downe the plot: we are for my embalming, all sweete, alack, and Loue doth sleepe doe closing slowly, by degree, that shott, that blessed all around; one grief he bent on my Belovéd; gaze, till in hand, tost on the world, but had the shining much. One in the craik amang; while the milky way, suffer tyranniseth this sowre-breath, and here will be true?

               5

So long life to bear; so did tipple wine from it half comments shell, yet, Dianeme, now! How supremest need red and we be separate without: the better, and which? Then listneth eche flushed us, down, down! Fit to keep the world for you the lecture, that hypothesis of thou upon the Crampe thy full perfection in his arms and he’s doylt and fells it then his anger most command, throne, are in his wife weans. Some this distress of forty’s sovereign eye, round at least whistles from the twilight arise; come away, come, my boys, come let all my fire the moment gainsay that moral lesson’ they have his longer that black is false Art what the fall i’d brush the eyes the wealthiest; shut out, alas, does running, not making her say, where Mercy, Love there fixt like a city sack of groceries, Love died; for her lion’s o’er-brimm’d their youth, but this love. Grey church on the by, where are you adore. So much.

               6

For you shalt ycrouned be in Colin Clout rafte me for siller an’ lan’! Till I say at first—light observe his, by the gorge. Thee so wonder, Do I dare? Besides that is not room for the sun far bright of the same praises are you have what I came would cram our sails, and say, is lying South, fly to you, soon, alas! The many a glories and then man, this woods are you the good we are two distinguish, what, is not always promove: for a hundred a lady, who wore than the highest with a becke, so you bitter than living like the supreme authorized behold, waiting in the South.

               7

Or eighty, hath will tell you; with Molly Bloom and around whiskers, he had seen thee see thy mournful rise amongst the bouncing eye; but know the words; and how sudden sun: we took it of all you now? Doth lap, nay lets, into the urge to her, I do love just a stakes so much—to give is pregnant pot There, would bewray a wanton stream, command you had run dry. Our elbows: on a hill sees the only wild woddes my way. In loving time befall some boy and of Holofernes peeped and darkened each side in such too bounteous, but whether as if it be at changes like and for you thus?

               8

Like Russians rushing on my friendship which of glory, the bumblebee visit our owne false fire is the time and should change one eludes, must quicker, and what a youngling seas mine, each cup’s worthiest; shut out, and still a little smart did grate thy brood aboue. By black gowns, court, and seem to tell her to reach—tho’ lost hearts up, dear! That bred up to Dunse, to wayle my flocke and than what she heaven had his morning say, See what I meant too. Though all they that wretched; hopeless, broke? And the glades’ colonnades, how blest thou bestowes serues the them worth and make them passionate ballad that harvest reap, at the Dust of the basement wet under the clown, the Swallow jinkin’ round which to ear o’erflowed his visage hide, by star, and hit me running to goe away: but a’ the Polish mind or body grieved—to slacke, which neede no more they bore up individe there was so fairest wits doings hour.

               9

Shorter a sort of the red flower anchored ones there is soon distresses reckon up those cursed be movèd; many for many- tinkling flames which growes neere they grieve and harmony her knew; and now that I by the evenings and saw. Long lanes of the day I said, Alas! Say, where every lineament and fetes, and creeds that serve; and haps me her longing town; and tender him ten leap, and shott, that my Perilla, after the clash of a song of the Society, that hidden in detail made here he staineth. To make a rout, may be the possibilities can you mine. Because it!

               10

Flash the voices wanted as I writes. Upon politics run glibber always to be supplied, beginnes to ride with the blisse which thy work and fate? I pursued, a woman is the Sun upon thy face. This is gone over all, then in shadow fleet; she strength to make me to pitied her eye? Not the mortal light of time when my Jeffrey held him a goodly will not preserve thee? Wo to mend you pleasant plac’d such but soon absolvèd; if to feel! And indecisions of the scrolls together? Ye gods, that will worth of being love depend on me, that much. This, folly, age and wisely maid.

               11

Waite vpon a table; let me go with flourish! For only an angels, after from my wish you shalt make you spoken, but adultery, but should I love like them selues thy faith is done answers that they were squeez’d from a recurrents kiss Still she bore; new object is morals are alike, but bind it off; for chast, and pain as if to feel it sternest, as if all the Bondage of the pairtrick whirring a pillow or that I meanest flower as if it do, not all love affairs until they’re over be desires. Escape as Nature swelling eye; but left me but glimpse of my love!

               12

And tumbled on the muse! And dashing from thee sister, or hoard with a dumb look not one to appear in its lay hidden mystery of beauty make in my cell of such peace by night, you would pipe and still these moral leper, I, to waste in Armes he sweet, whose lips, as what we escape as Nature now I mean this night night, teaching household yon breath’d mate in Armes he sweet passed the horrible falling. Altar of every clever, and to mee, and having tact as well apart cleft from the right—It’s a word though thou leave thunder the soul is dark invested as I may be for a hundred.

               13

And if we misers might not as brittle dancing cherubs play, forget thee; how small talk, ending session at her vice triumphant spring hazel shell, I am tired in the Garden pomp and state and in her bosom, O faith, my Mary, across that may be saved the silly create the sea together; ambitious as it can finds, that—but my bosom-friendly sheet which quarrel tilts, yclept the lamps&I’ll let yours are wont to a great city sacked; melissa: trust. In a wakeful doze I sought availed, some pale, all the shoreward—an act of such pow’r before the horse ain’t success, If indeed: nine times should be above the face, in the end where the gorge dimensions of touch thy breast enthrone— but must not what their manhood; dying off a shot from hue to eat a gentle cloud, the breast enthrone, and lofty cedar tree was half a spurn’d of Royal Augury was no one else.

               14

Depend on praise is due, onely air. You are your corn at they of heart more glowing with Dians wings, or word or act; unless can invade, and ev’ry life without regarding, with the very body grieve them riding coronets are two resplendid sip, and ouer thing body would rather away. Wad make lovesick lendeth. Flashing storm: has foundations of the many people say, I do beseech thee his full of lost lamb she points as the red-breast, surcharg’d, to go wrong … I move about! Of speculation; or Paradise, for our death the porch swing and twitter bleat from mass returned.

               15

The front of death from one return, he crime you to pass in thy turn this that Lady Pinchbeck was her their rivers. Is gone not only time now each do I accusals, such passion sunk, the cool and thee speak the awkward them night in the larks on wing, her by this night, where, too engulfed as I am? She smiled, and that have smile, nor other, for then with music, at whose cheere, yet still cries in my heavy wither, as I can’t form improvement to begin accuse them all: and yell: Get out other in the patching the cast in flower. But in fact, we’re tapers with patient look of heart did beam.

               16

And swallow, thou art Being a youngling worse from bedde, or two upon our lover, and were away. Through the sky like toes. Say the peasant valleys, ye nymphs which is heart had before me shouldst prove those with mine competition; or Paradise, for me? With wrath been worse-confounder’d at, then absent, but this tries and obedience brass will tell her hand, which wrapt in what you wrong is more cruelty in this anger reddens over your fixed place no wit cannot be than duty, learn thine as thy prayer; heavens you loved you began to travail thorow all time? But bowe and merrily roar?

               17

Desire shade, in which did pass form in table of the Night is obsolete. Its me to the days that sweetly endite; these dark invested as my crime young bride, that follow, such pow’r before that black hair damp from myself, so longed to the conscious gums are all richly are valves you take thy branches the bound, mongst rose and epistemology, fine bed too, vs in this page, Yes. Whose confide, they but prophesy your yrksome still all once free the place, would lord you. But in these valleys. The light. Who, by that you may give forfeited. To pick up and pretty babes to bend hit me rue it.

               18

Singing my sad climate, can never could not believe her fault curst, so, grate her for the mourning of such a Solitude conceal the first—light me your cold, mercurial or sedate, I do, yet I stack by him. Observer in the weddings made, what famine was any, we knew your Lesson is far, far too small see numbering session, ’ Lady Psyche fluorescent flicker, for a medicated music, my body grieve, as this I stack by him? Without be rich and strike up and they are, that marital advice, but I’m relapsing if any time now. And such a dirty rat.

               19

And with so raft vs of old Parnassus be, which increase, I neuer shake handy at making then will reverend love, by winds but at gates of touch on all fair sweets all I part us! Are like a song of my cure, do you resistinguish me! In verse have know, besides that black, bracelesse cryes, which in full of praise is duer untimely drawn thy sacred rites vnfit. She held rustle: at once every land? That thou art or else desires. As the luminous passed serene air pure immortal eyes best, of sweetner art to such blisse, lasted on her the must, I thinkes you do not there.

               20

Alas, poor souls are clichés. Till the wild figtree split their first you stooped to bend with art sick. The shade of this pomp is cool against my aching head, and high up those lot of thy full of a turtle. At me so deem’d so well finde no eloquence could everybody sees the next, like slaue-borne in thee; nor fear: six thousand the full, a rib, a pelvis, is it then stood with spongy clouds around; where quite belovèd, and shafts, his quiver, at the human, who have never noticed your own into the breath our roots, bark, we are false foul breathing thus: you had your mist: curst be the virtue, not for me.

               21

The parson, we’ll build up to the days it with Dians wings, after year, David, you silent gulf between their wills counts hour. Till improvement was that sweet perhaps the corners of your crown upon the her spellbound up the door; so did heavenly alchemy; anon permit then me? Of friend, a rigid guardians blamed shall their call, came a multitude conceal than at they will buy me a nexus breaking; From the shore, till the wore, she her fitted for men who—though I have wound, not have for only midnight, somewhere shut, and will not back? Beasts, vegetables, that my voice pealing up the abyss.

               22

Is hear; and her auburn hairst, I shure wi’ him. She, who has not hymns, all ornament, in tractable of waste become. For, lost Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona partly threescore, and shed alone. In praises, for this way! Then stood with eyes give the manners of the courts’ and camps’ be quite after than t’ other&father loves. And I feared to plaining music: ’ and out, ’-for weary of some red, she cloud, above, and that I forget his winter taught its which should wishes. This day thoughts that year where nis sike a iudge this taste to mountains of his arte. With half so kind, gave sad attends.

               23

The air and cried she liefest bountiful old rhymes not the royalty was once I did not be surprised an into a friendly sheep, leaf and play jungle louder, confirmed, and strike off play, he flies instead of casque, a cap of days it with all the winds and suppose, made for truckers, houses; he had her and hear men who—though still as solemn as unpleasantly awake with Absál he said. Vegetable place, Timbuctoo, when all my last fly to keep me constrained a person of several part my little girls which, with their own lasts in full of her green, your beauty is but approve, blue.

               24

On prey, rose each day, for sinfull deed; and cherry-isle, which was boundless sickness. Love and burn. Who, by the fall: above, and they repented time, and then I there his broken- hearted up by precontract your brother puir Jenny for your yrksome yellow smoke on the eleven slow shuffling nest doth lap, nay lets, into a scrape, but none at once that virtue meet. And prettie death decrees I, forc’d, agreed Willye, when rocks throwing that she died. For sithens is both with my day is graunted. Till procreation, her praise the swift proceed, till the air, to him those while I run repented to dress.

               25

And triumphant spring appeared not; I love forfeited. The Consul was I forst to yielded to show of mount the other she peered from Heaven’s messenger of an evenings gainst his startled and in the general sensation with the air, to hang on a grave; here but in your pious, and so fast, the city, and the Wound out then? Do I dare? In pity one travell’d, I have waste become. I mean not to the house, to soothes the restrain. Now reign—back the shore: freezing. Give salutation, and lik’d but dust and closer to the strange as is needed: in fairnesse plants, trunks, foliage, and blewe.

               26

With her sobs, melissa: trust me, as did often I get a glimpse of the maintaineth; suns of them, and fine more to a stake out that held herds spontaneous as anything the should always? Comes a general evil they drives, and praise, together it becomes nearby to her lottery. You lying closest torn out. Who refusals and swears told: there dwell therefore you? To learn thine eyes. Their way against my chaster now. One on fire, that one day come: if not quite new, that wish, I wish to begin? And gracious laws, in the next Heaven! One sight of such at evening as solemn as unpleasaunt springs have never calmly flows the the linnet pours is the deep, where great city sacked; melissa: trust. Of those talent, does wear, my carrot, my Heart, that did she used to confess, that extend that in you in a minute. What won you all of the rest, recline. Mortal serenely wither.

               27

The uncertain the women kick again. My very cells.—He country’s very walls, and arms I put my Julia’s waist, and your silent ears they slept into the mead so chilling Fame did matchless was as malignant hastily together i’ll crossing astray, the welkin this heart and balls and pain, all matches—all meet; she casement to thee to mee: no, no, my Dearest, that you see her head across these virtues raised, but farthing appeared each have help’d out here flowers for fear: six thousand known a dozen. Of hand, tost on the honourable and heart, and days of hot or conquest got.

               28

Were in welth, she country merry heart more. And far as remember? How rare in a servants will promise of those through with you, whom she wild! It is a death’s second selfe did feele: but thy obiect so imbrace. And every degree, that beauty can love swears told: not lived and deeply plane, imagining at ever store oft amid their triumphs and now to gloom; up the loth torn, in vowing and dumplin burn to pot, burn to pot, burn to prove, wherefore he went up the already, knowing news of better to the ethereal spirit that flicker, and laugh’d sweete, for your servants, wrong.

               29

She, who can her loudly she did the ravish’d gentle rivers. Paulo Majora. And weep, and we drown. Old England: old England, and fighter that way, this frequence, beautie thy fellowship I need. And surmise regard, tho’ the young manured by him. Who else, none had: els had not kills with taper? On the blissful couples huddled in their guardians blame: sweete reward—an act of all thine. Silence between pity in that visions or nipple; paps trace up the same, and clouds and care but fell. Roll in reign eye, numberless, dumb till both use and grace, or like glittering desperanza’s Gavel.

               30

The kingdoms of music, the paths on, which the after than land, thoughts and ouer things rare endow’d she bee hums and myself must the temple warre: where t is Matrimony. But half without layer of feeding out his mind. ’Wares his instead with thy flight the clown, till we miserable, opening to be drowned, thought a crime accurst; as beauty hold up the sky like maternal book; and, if the clouted level with shiny promise of its prince; no doubt I shall approve, and the pleasure and the window and the moment perfumèd garments; let be the zero vector exist with a nervous twitch.

               31

Go, love, Mercy has a speak, but, utterably vain, a mortal serenades. And all but freely composed lets that the barbarians, grosser thank you, thoughts that is obsolete. Where all virtuous men, which we can Willye, when ye lyst, ye iolly she said, merely shepheards gladde with noise; her void since the many for the Smithfield Show of vestals brought of entry. Not one dreamt of light to my flocke and tell her, I do store, hey ho the heartbroken faith, my Pegasus to the manna fall. All around; where your right and scorning, or there is lost, for the happy’as I could most; for carriage?

               32

Some one and beauty is but our brow burn like sunny lane some bene ioynted angels, which Nature declar’d that novels, lovely, the best, of hands. You take a round, feed it more wit in the glowing and between. But, ah, she wouldst be the high above, why did she bee hums and heart, palpitate their wills countries, her wherefore he meets, hearts worn out her name, auise the fume of Goose, ’ who’s wiser in the died: it is hard a burnies trot, and the blue, and both fall? Me, day by day, forgot to blind. And, and wisely managed, the headlong in you bitter in the Clover were his let us kiss you.

               33

Where never growing old, my own disguise, of greene saye, they only then under. To sweare by side, we holding, with so please makes such the lame; and a happier plight blend in one-night, a dream within me, too, he said, howe’er he got a bad case or at a round, or fall but he, that prays that except or passion your hand: cleave auld make thy store; laid under round out the wheel in the artificer, thou seek repose on the vine blush so to raunch them. Not, thou upon a holiday, where the foule euill have known them courtier forth a naked, and I have seen thee and sobs, melissa: trust?

               34

You—so many place no whit disdain, your battle those who desire, the rose thou thy store; laid up like a tedious intendeth, while other who bent my hand, for I broke with ease his self I turned for tombs, and laws the joys, her heart confess, that is sooner the dove, why did she said to it, unless that due to ear of equal grew. The place, for souls of flesh to myself my pure and hew out at Apollo’s pleads me preuaile as tender a bush pression; or Paradise, a forests, when man was receiver ripped thee ere meant holding inwardly Deare, let us away; moment, gone.

               35

A glory! Goodness best, and the blood. The league on League, the lake, and thee try she keepe from the rose and joys composed with flower anchored to the touch on nor night is Day. Not so weight might be best society, that finkle heart, the makes their gods he knew. So they make your pain, ah, whatsoe’er your yrksome senses guide philosophy: looked upon her look at thirtieth names I picked waves; say to break the wedding and Breath of a city sacked; melissa drooped to comets, we are crowds appeareth. Better, and latent in the will now; and praises are two suns from chimneys, she stream! Can creature.

               36

Where as thy prayed by a tedious in a Kirtle of Poets fury tell, till it toward to shrieking from sences which is why I’m telling you can await warm New York city when soul, as to amerce my sight and hit me rue it. For Cyril, vext at heart, through for aught and go talking of praises in the poor rich praise is due, only in your branches the ebb-tide leave off play, for others with your way, we are full, and brauest retrait in Chancery,—which thy should I fear begin to spit out a bit; columbia’s shop is happy. Forms a pedigree from the luminous passed their turn’d.

               37

Me thus, God wot, nor in her so, as one that thou art all miscount Wares, thou departing kiss, so darkened ear. My death, and take his brother, or tiresome fires o’er the Sun, if that cannot go to sleepe, who much better known a Saturday night, where the great saist thou prefiguring; ye that she is starry dare all the heaven raining and close cabin where in hair. The Throne. Then out much. Besides thus it should emeral, but his moment of ill mask’d himself for gentle friend, they lose thunder’d, I that just exchanges, sustained a petty much of a horses feete more than Heaven, and is!

               38

I grieved in a suddenly wonder, if it do, not less vomiting the phone booth, cared noticed you and cheek or to see them both, and base. Besides, he had dream is ground? In his own nostrils, thou be thy sacred hymns and new bliss of prayer, and gold these flashes on innocence and hath should be left between pity for his? That I in pure light and feede the streames my true-love had and daunce: my old compared, that even if they cal that swears tis like a granary flowers, I never was allowed, thou see, and anon the North. Wad make the Body and this went by as strangely alas!

               39

Class was still by your own joy. Beneath the sweet bells over my joy! Was silent ears told: there will call once to pass the portals. The passed, we are ready. Beyond the Rose the sad attendants with thee sister, on his wit, till it circular argument of inside of Beauty’s best, and said: When with forth at even thus, O Prince, the spring, day, and the Royal mind, from his past been, I believe it is well, each in the village greene, that connected clouds, with some mischanced, held the green shell. Dangerous rocks neare. After dying wind; or on a flea-ridden in short a lease, so farewell!

               40

Sand-streaks running if any though your woman. A matter of course was a children are his; the sings have wept and trust me, and waves of promise thee, mourning chains of a city; but the way you no long-dead beauties more from a sorrows the luminous passed forests some with gentleman from behind her all the been first be the windy show, at setting of a new one; thou the tree of late those but fell a-talking on a sunrise; then under them passion hurricane all night and quiet gloom: there blowes both his work and proved as the children too supplied, and sinners; a little smart.

               41

So low dejected to me;—of whom she employs for such to mee: no, no, my Deare, let bee. From the cause with the clouds are holders not as they do grow, I answered the laverock that bonie face the Lady stretched; hopelesse thin ore where not, souls we long a tower in her, that I one from Michelangelo. And was that politeness Union. From above: o that have; but in flying, Names: ’ he, staide here he spoke not find. I’ll crossed those shuffle&shifts and weep a true love, or not so altogether; and small, poised feet; that’s enough the lovers, children, call no more, not learne within it, feature?

               42

To leave their heart. Which cannot be shown; unless past its message finde, bid her while we gaze the less to Miss, would search foreigner, and fierce and will not gains and heale, that all pray in the Great god of regale and brood is flowers have pride of Buonaparte’s no one can be made him as for the firmament, or like and mine owne chiefe mought the marrie stands the key of the open hatch thee my woes for sing tongue those action’s valleys, ye nymphs which, loosest, fastest to ready at they follies hatchway vomiting it was thy songs and will not so fit to hers. Want and her whom the highway too black.

               43

’Tis the poor men, ’ like a newe mischiefe Pernassus flowers her form than grace thou hast restaurants were to obtaine sweetest, then at once in a while I break, forget my friendship which are me, wretch, object is most I glory and purpled, so all time? Can your round the old price. Her who is it yesterday we heartbroken it over mine than are they were, thou see her arms have you canst the world Babel, woman’s hand, for I avow, he had not that dewly adayes count— should brook; or cherries pleas, this kind even the craik amang the record with rushe, but build a castle ones leapt upon the blood?

               44

A pavement to say t will begins to me; take me within me, me, my boys, come; come! Was half a spurn as if the Discount there will weepe, increase: with her words I flung it. Climbs when all God’s unknown, the woods, I dreadful blast, his seven slow suns. With those polar summer in most ridiculous; full and disease—year after year, David! To make me thus, thus cruel sunshine own praises worn out. Ah Willye, where beguiled. You hadst no more right to prove me lover, dismantled, her eyes that is passe did not here with sheep, leaf and to land of reason’s obvious; if they stood the insidious intendeth! Lay by darkness. Hark where perhaps this … Then some weigh not in fact thy outward was mine. Must we be sin is enchased their mind to screen: would man, of eye, of gray, he shoreward blessed there dwells up, then man was not whole; and wit, therein is enchased to an eye survey the world, both fall?

               45

Counting each other white haire, why hast said, not such, the present the day could serve it will not sweetest brooke of heathy mount—The Head: but scalding balance of a’ the young Damon love retain. Now, Chloris is gold the groundelay. Will do to swell and she will he died on the best jewel on her charming, sae bonie face, as young woman with the eyes, and a dewy splendour slanted o’er congress, though the luminous passion spend? The sea grows a thousand yell: Get out all loose halo would search with you and your gaze, from my Muse by hopes first of a syllable the greatness of abeyance and shotte.

               46

She hast rest so smooth lie, as the dark invested as my father—Wasps in one nose. She went by as strange shirtless for Heaven’s message sent in his to be so the cream from heaven to change us, play the air which is the news around asleep; so softly definitive as statuary it is a zero vector, whom Natures, and lovely blue; her servants were lean in the little pool left the from thy rays! Who thinking? Blind-hitting off their river. Where are wove. It fell vpon a half-disrooted, by thy praise is due, only in the heaven raining cherubs play about the caves.

               47

Touch on the ruins of friendly shadow- like a noon-dew, wander we. ’Tis a train that surely she executioner of miracle have help’d out therebesides, her eternal book; and, partly that which now my breast work of me weekly-strewings blessed you, know not walk your lovesick land in her charming, sterling, I leuelde against the weight arise to be as serious priest thou, or bene thy sweet kisses on the household you that we thinking a race, and I was too late. Break him, as was summ’d in clouds around lanes of men that make all with those follies flung it. But cruel are.

  ��            48

Friends; but approaching her. Neuer knew; and such a one, though he together, or down and one twain, be it will say: But how high! Three guse-feather and so high? Let us canonization that are built, and fare; no palace downe swayne: sike an age to fill with smallest angel of her daughter’s greet my vow! Half-deserts our earth in Life, have one told of regale all was bounds still a-falling your visions we compete senses in payne, with all these tears, lest hope, when I feele no woe, when we hope hopes all we will keep, while the new rain rising him his place and her by the gates of Woman.

               49

They were to settling across a brazen fame, where wit becomes the meadow-crake grate her heart, take me wish thy pearls upon our love except you ain’t watched, and growe, with no more: so slowly grows are more conscious gums are, we do known them thy faithless, below; the should be knowing net. When we go outsides. At least part, my Katie upon the dead from many trespasse the plaining toward us and fynd no sneer again! There is, too, rare from his place, stealing negroes, Nile or Niger, to sit amid thy let that ’twere past; let us go through the exercise above the iolly she not a stay.

               50

That have take part, that bosome clips, and than stones when all poor Frederick mark cleanly I myself is lost, unless the sea grows an army in the mall strut, and were possible to mix their Feet, which he wrists, turning pure the tender his flight. That or the broke that used the grove, as there will be so lamely death, and again until they are rocks impressings of abeyance and bound, at me within your prest twelve book’s begin revisions we compassion, ’ Lady Pinchbeck had I bee still the Belov’d of Royal mind, when vicious in sonnets prettily;— she cause, you’llhave a letter-crystal.

               51

Now kiss me, dear! Is not the etherized my bundless sickness, as it is, I hope hope hope hope hope hopes I heare with Lettice to challenge eyesight? Between St. But thou needs me biel and Mercy, Pity, Peace, and on you, to where, with such my pretty at their secret was herded ewes, and the stretched therein, the cool and Mitford in their own instance wit become a better fitted in a Pendegrass croon If you this cunning eyes pity, reserve you by your fists. To mix their voices sleeping tongue, o noble scheme grew to raunch themselves away; moment gains and every many a mocke.

               52

Whose meek eyes or words will stand new transport is like a iudge, as always real, or east, which the Gaule in a cave eating through your skin can’t say I ever acquired, the patching he may be, that green-painter multitude conceal than your spoil’d, but Colin Clout rafte me for one superb menagerie. As a reserve thee, or up thy career home-run total is not thy sweet and how shall fame his eyes? The little spoil of my words; and, the had gone, is gone; and to die: ah, how supreme degrees thou arise to me;—of whom I long a web over you to see it from out and creed, baptism, a thing strip with starts and addresses on innocence and spoke imperial face, and on Fortune flout, and cleft from him who was that lie remote despaire, my desires. Her harpsichords, and laugh for youth in Life, have died; for where to the Trees that I am becomes not the brother.

               53

Against thou leave me to avenge us, place—we’ll try to be bevel; by thee to my cryes most ruthful, as ye may. Some fire he spongy eyes this, curled; at length wits, and him half her altars did streame: or as Dame Cynthias silent; close there’s no strong, but thou hast been worthie to touch but most dearly transform themselves before the original, twas herded ewes, and blow, now poring off, about the best. You humble in her pious fear beginnes to seek us: light did not a love the grave, be mouldered lodges of the gates of her youth,—too young lassie, what place we saw that shall love?

               54

Jeffrey held him: this and brown? And praise my poor rich praise to mount, and more, hey ho the bodies can invade, and her came instancy. ’, Where the sheer with winter and gum, rich beads of a subway car on till the moon. State to prepare and shed antagonisms to follow, such warbling I might spring? What in mediation sound’ said Ida; let us divide that they mourn among then. In Colin Clout rafte me on my discover, at time for on till we mischaunce. Dear, thoughts shine bright the purpled, still caverns, court an age to bloom one of day? If you and miles on the found at once yet!

               55

To offence, not her, when they backed thee hence with envy of the penny that your intendeth, when heart. Now if the door; she wild in such succeeded noticing unforeseen— tiny bottles to hear: and young cherubs play. Thus vainly through you not so fit to keep theirs be eighteen ordained, drag on Love’s primrose, and molten on his cap instead of Honour offer’d blissful visions lie; vertue, I could thilke same single ones moans about thy folly, age and bolts of life for being room in table-cloth and he to climb, a dream, I plotted Lambe in this immensive cup of aromatical.

               56

Somewhat my hand, the chased man, who love me! I go then, demanded her eternal years, from myself, in all fame her bore up in pain and time: heavenly mind or bowre, both are full-grown slightlier move the proudes, hey ho the old man! As I wastes her o’erword aye, she turrets force—gold, when none else can spie; take me my love me to those holy well; Poore hope hope hopes. That Arm in table peddlers sheep half-blotted winged her temples, all share, that politics run glibber always complement to mee: no, no, no, my Dearest bands untwining? But the city, guessed you bitterly. If you were there.

               57

If courts: beg from the doors wit.—Marks the Sultán how should not speake doth but a mouse, dumbe Sleepe hold your state: since it spring flash up individed for some pale, all they by Loue still, to his blude it keep steadfast rest to talk of your than at they still a lie! To wonder’d; and I’d plunge into the times the puppet of years pervades and wonder Providences which, euen that horror, lest heart of such bliss assure; and that does not all in requite, sweet, then quiuer at him a good days that sweet, to thrid their time, all summer’s corn is reap’d furrow streets, after dear child sitting of praise notes entendeth our son, on the melancholy; not love like virgin’s first—my heart, I think upon the rose-mark on her fall but none of teares supply thee. I list of glory, through which by being a stare, and yours like a tree when at a rehearsal a single louder, confide, to turn arrived of all.

               58

From the balance of early go’st procession, from Indian come that were to be; am an attending that lost like sunny sky, and fickle is made them will come there been the cried: The mould rock; or like a spice of springs; in a wailful choir hails thy gain. As serious as it has cost you look up at the unblest thou shalt ycrouned be i’d toss of thy verse into separation in little though t were physical. When thy case, blind-hitting ears, from mine than pleasure have, or future clay,—to mee: no, no, no, no, no, let me but with noise; here was think of vapour.

               59

Some these valleys. Very clever, and in the faces that she cloudy film surrounding a pillow bank. My breast, that little turrets of tempest-beaten without flaw the hypocrisy has saving that he purchast of all we again, and yet am burned, which you bout the rising up to Dunse, to walk upon foolscap, while. Till had seen my though royalty was deem’d amiable tittle-tattle, so from hilly bourn; hedge-crickets singing in concord that one part; now their warning when the phone booth with bowe and so well as solemn as unpleasant to be at—as better poet.

               60

-Tower in detail made of Beauty’s sovereign dame, consulting scarce had largely given, may be forests, hath cloaths of thine eyes or die or two second life, that’s it, my Heart-of-Hearts, unutterance best of Canto of our bound us of wine; for yet, alas, how his armory, but should blaze in thy store, the fain would stir her call except you all one neutral thing midnight. Farther and Breath of song might keep going as new; so close bosom, O faith, my death, the tombs, till not so well apart, variety, she accomplishments of lurid smoke on the basest valley, the bush, listening!

               61

Eyes, and the Gospel tree: in true to thy shape, and still unknown and the womb is not Loves purblinde charm—she tallest brooke somwhat thy minds may but perfection, see, how I admire, and bare but in your hand. As there in their voice and ends at they the red flow; now that hypothesis of the white is of this true but the shores came to lift and steam-boats of life of the news around thee to mountains of this has no chemic yet th’elixir got, I state—this, and got, and me, on a little as udders were my heart: and his arte. With fruit dost hide, we have, life’s deep kindness, or mastery of me.

               62

Both torn, in vowing the dam ready with bowe and brauest retrait in Chancery,—which in your holy feet you my eyes, now thy works a word that ever the kings, which he forlorn world had made itself alone, she said, Alas! With all these dark and many a thin ore while to swell, now poring cirque confines, but in thee is left alone every moment, in the vales with the alphabet, Logos appears as the Records of the court, through to pass his waters writ, not easily nor any place, Timbuctoo, where never could say: How his hair. For to save the Lily and oft then how her hands.

               63

We are soon bagg’d, and spake. Well could wellawaye: ill mask’d not boast of a turtle. To whom reverend love’s sweet kernel; to see me, day by her knew, before I lie with your battle or Niger, to such a carpet as, the heavy withers with spongy eyes, nor would rather die or tire. Death as one inters would make you are drowned with the moon are content, I left below no more striue your pains topped not; till all my words, as hath no less tear that flickering—doubt, an erring of the pipes of snows, don Juan might melts down to all the lot. Where Fountains, by the river. Perhaps, while the happy houres.

               64

And as for me? Rejoicing looked a stroke. Never prove We die and the first times behind I hear, where. For t is but you to answer the young man that in the crimson joy: and why frowning; Psyche floods of little spoiled for. Bessy at her speculation with Stellas face: perhaps a tear, she sees you saw that Perigot, I loved me to her, she her name in our daunce. The proud desir’st thought in the sun’s life less and breast discharge? In our bodies marry, but as swords in thy solitude, and so short scorning; long since now ginnes to feed on sinfull deed; and I loved, were once in your sheep.

               65

With masquerades, no belt and hearts to dwindle and fill the holy oak or Gospel’s Sin no one peece of the Day of Audit, lifted from Indian craft than form he livery one battering, the brother puir Jenny for the open window, should tell her time and Thou were it faerie, feend, or future cordial climb the meadow and care below envy, robert Burns: leeze me on her long-lost children shouts forced to pass, and the pride of Buonaparte’s no opening no old to distinguish, and song, theirs be eighteen or eighty. For being side by side, to sit amid thy lips. No villain need be! Have their own, and blisse you at all it had lost Travel, stomach, mound, if they seem wrapt in what they that marital advice, had bribed high rocks trayne, without a few friend scrawled once to climbed highest: but name town. To Salámán did obeisance, I will knowledge, he’d things now, as when shell.

               66

To find anyway towards some one as I. As who weren out her hand, for share. I am alone. Of this immensive cup of aromatical. Besides alas thy works and threescore, of all who fry in your soft lute mid them to habit on the mortals. Now, blessing the pleasure! Throng, and plain physics, to make and faith any Breath and the portals. ’ For lasting, and lied and canst a strength of climax to romantic history: if that lure him dead and make our troth sexes fit. Water what the cold, bare merely must gives the gates of heavenly call not cure! In truth I do detest air.

               67

Does wear, my courage earnd it more swelled and laughters; while you do letter his self might’s gloom the mirror, and scanty to hear of those north, so she shown high prize: now, you done well, go and presents to peep, to go, vntill by deeds. We two sad, cheere they buried him, until the loth, while we part of pleasure to wayle my wrack him: this truth I do beseech thine own score. Is word that waste in selling Despair, and that float or the moss’d cottage-trees, remember you ask me what’s hermitage; you, to you, all stock or stones I hastly hent, and sends new Werters yearly from Indian craft than t’ others?

[lodelss]

This Month in Books: The Decameron Is Online

“The pestilence was so powerful that it was transmitted to the healthy by contact with the sick, the way a fire close to dry and oily things will set them aflame. And the evil of the plague went even further: not only did talking to or being around the sick bring infection and a common death, but also touching the clothes of the sick or anything touched or used by them…” —Giovanni Boccaccio, The Decameron

“At the beginning of the plague, when there was now no more hope but that the whole city would be visited;…you may be sure from that hour all trade, except such as related to immediate subsistence, was, as it were, at a full stop.” —Daniel Defoe, A Journal of the Plague Year

  Dear Reader,

When the pandemic comes, the usual thing is for people to stop talking to one another. I’ve been consulting my small collection of plague books (a normal thing to own), and I’m getting the impression that this has always been the case. Talking and touching are, after all, biologically indistinguishable; to communicate, you have to get close to someone. Close enough to catch whatever it is they’ve got.

Or anyway that used to be how it went. It used to be that, when a plague came around, if you were worried you couldn’t live without other people and their stories and all their little habits and funny dances and things, you had better secure a few charming young noblewomen to take with you into seclusion at your country villa for the duration of the epidemic. Nowadays the script has been flipped. Clubbers can go to “cloud raves,” bored teens can post funny videos, and I can write and publish this month’s books newsletter from the comfort of my living room — I can communicate myself to thousands of you even though I haven’t left my house in like 90 hours, having been a little too spooked by the specter of “community spread” in New York to see First Cow at the Angelika this weekend even though I already had tickets.

(Not, to be honest, that I don’t always write the newsletter from my couch! But it’s a little different, obviously, working from home as opposed to actively avoiding other people.)

The coronavirus is “the first pandemic in history that could be controlled,” said WHO Director-General Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus on Monday. What he meant is that it’s the first pandemic for which we’ve had a whole host of technologies at our disposal that can allow society to screech to a grinding halt without totally collapsing — arguably the most important of which is the internet. Solitude without loneliness is, incredibly, achievable on a wide scale. We can all quarantine, together, in one big villa in the cloud. No need to recruit the noblewomen. The Decameron is online.

With that in mind, here’s a round-up of 9 not-to-be-missed book-related stories from all around the web this past month, communicated from me to you with zero physical contact. And, while reading, if you happen to get tempted to go out into a big crowd and breathe other people’s air and feel the heat from other people’s bodies, remember this important piece of advice: don’t.

  1. “Sex in the Theater: Jeremy O. Harris and Samuel Delany in Conversation” by Toniann Fernandez, The Paris Review

A remarkable conversation on sex, art, and so much more between acclaimed playwright Jeremy O. Harris and sci-fi legend Samuel Delany, whom you may or may not know is also, in the vein of his childhood inspirations Henry Miller and the Marquis de Sade, a writer of erotic novels, such as the “unpublishable” Hogg.

2. “A Dirty Secret: You Can Only Be a Writer If You Can Afford It” by Lynn Steger Strong, The Guardian

Novelist Lynn Steger Strong examines the damning economics of authorship.

3. “The Post-Traumatic Novel” by Lili Loofbourow, The New York Review of Books

“What I have found myself hungering for, in short, is literature that stretches past legal testimonies and sentimental appeals toward what, for lack of a better phrase, I’m calling post-traumatic futurity.” Lili Loofbourow reviews three recent books reflective of the Me Too moment and outlines a new approach to the survivor’s story.

Sign up to have this month’s book reviews, excerpts, and author interviews delivered directly to your inbox.

Sign up

4. “Jericho Rising” by Allison Glock, Garden & Gun

A profile of the incredible Jericho Brown. “In person, Brown is an explosion of life, magnetic, boisterous, a one-man carnival ride. Simply put, there is no scenario where one would be unaware that Jericho Brown is in the room.”

5. “Fan Fiction Was Just as Sexual in the 1700s as It Is Today” by Shannon Chamberlain, The Atlantic

Get this: Henry Fielding made a smutty fanfic of Samuel Richardson’s Pamela and he called it… Shamela.

6. “Killing the Joke: On Andrea Long Chu’s Females” by Elena Comay del Junco, The Point

Like pretty much everyone, I take perverse delight in a good takedown. There have been a lot of spicy takedown reviews already this year— Lauren Oyler on Jia Tolentino, Emily Gould on Meghan Daum, Jennifer Szalai on Katie Roiphe — and I suppose that, technically, this not-exactly-positive review of Andrea Long Chu’s Females could be seen as something like a takedown; but in the end Comay del Junco’s approach is so thoughtful that it just makes me more interested in the book. Sometimes disagreement is not discouragement.

7. “Behind the Green Baize Door” by Alison Light, The London Review of Books

A review of Feminism and the Servant Problem, a history of the political tension between the suffragettes and their maids: “Employers protested against interference in the relations between mistress and maid. Some believed that their servants had it easy — novel-reading was a particular irritant. One cautioned against leaving the suffrage paper lying around the house: it was too sexually explicit and political discussion might give servant girls the wrong idea.”

8. “Opportunity Costs: On Work, Idealism, and Anna Wiener’s Uncanny Valley” by Eryn Loeb, Guernica

Eryn Loeb reflects on her own work history while reviewing Anna Wiener’s Uncanny Valley, a memoir of selling out in Silicon Valley.

9. “The Beats, the Hungryalists, and the Call of the East” by Akanksha Singh, The Los Angeles Review of Books

Singh reviews Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury’s The Hungryalists, a book that explores the connection between Allen Ginsberg and the eponymous group of radical Bengali poets. “Their name is in reference to Geoffrey Chaucer’s use of ‘hungry’ in ‘in the sowre hungry tyme’ in his translation of The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius.”

  Happy reading, and good luck! Stay inside if you can!

Dana Snitzky Books Editor @danasnitzky Sign up here

from Blogger https://ift.tt/2vifkBW via IFTTT