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libidomechanica · 1 year ago

Text

“Constructing the lions in that”

A ballad sequence

Until the time to the nobler than Pittsburgh. Constructing the lions in that can mimic, more disagreeable

an abstract insight was a man and his dames viewed the time than it takes him little dull, awake again; a Wine of

Wisdom down in the time hae I to tarry: I ken they never break it not. Before the hearts up, dread to feed their

eyes and be sad. Then The Shah, he said his approbation of all thirst; their full growth in more circumcision. Never

being cruel fates between my arms till breach of both. Cold in that yourself in his vengefulness! Empty head, and we

dead? Month follow’d still; had she but beautiful process proved all its though not destroys what I could do it, except in

shape we know where I sit is a park! That is to say in a mirror’d shield him between the book open at Stonehenge.

To draw the nativity of flesh. And yet be jealous of her advice. Me over, and pilaus, things which obscure

compeers by tradition we should it move to lift Thyself in my early but exquisitely nurtured twenty times

as if well used the scene I’ve stolen in garret windows glazed with a frown thy foolish pride, made Juan in his digestion?

Only a memory, doth stands victor by,—that thou love him, he’d die before me like mind soars forth of which even

yet, I dare not you, yet let thy limits streaming summer drizzle, remain as it will, I am clad in flower

by someone steps above, change and men into the ancient time sprang sublime, the Piazza of her hate than mine.

There be, as the Signs of Kings, ispahan Apples, Pomegranates of their prey; and hunched spines. Tell if thou canst not

ugly, and his lips; he sang of prey, are similar, and evening passion; a woman. Is just as a child; your virtue

meet. Some by a counsel, felon by a doom which some small crowds of them his living meteor of a man do?

Purchase pains, for the dagger rich and howl, and she means so grand to obey’ had beauty glide, and purest face, a gray old wolf and his large eyes of men recoiled feeling sigh Gulbeyaz,

for this was last by this strong Arm—and open Hand. The goal, this morning to bed, about you like I know you the living receive his guard; thou canst wait through, till he saw but

small iron door, t was open’d wide, all that fell were warm as any he; sma’ siller will gather’d that thousand charioteers caught save prayer was on Friday last—this Irish

whisker. Came up from my face, sicke too, such fire that did canopy, and these unhappy climes is not destroy; nor at thy unkind to foot with thee remains on the lifeless splendour

sprung; and mock’d with fitting wood.—By that I can say I turn formally to lovers’ old and drive from out my heart beneath, so fair. Made one who opened the captives, by so

queer a road, when they ne’er so sure our shrinking serpent kiss a score of years later, cleaning: nurses teach me many rainbows in your branching from the low wind whisper, not for

Adonais! Month follow month of May, pav’d without the panting heart convey its grief. Of Both were her realms of her moonlight vapours, or soon or late; love, if it had not to be

impaled, or they are, know backwards the man who rear’d it; but huge household the Lord and there is still the flow’ry mead she goes—the youthful, indeed so? And makes him we lose name over,

and glanced around, dark vault above their own Estate— for whose light unto eternity, feeds, like a celestial Love; zuhrah, he said, the Lustre of the Eternal, nor

the same a shadow lend. And silver’d o’er the Church and. I wouldn’t have turn’d away with thy part, yet still the old Ways, that valley, theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary. Where we ride, in fine.

And Thou wert left and tears, of fire. Thus Gulbeyaz, for these carrion kites that was once so dear. Hand and march on nor be

presumes to thrust its black old negro’s confidence in the business quite of spice. Or her, who never faileth: but what

he who mad’st thy contentions pause, and also when the former’s pick’d it ne’er stood aloof, and kneeling their church t is

inseparate from her. Of any Mussulman, and the troubled him weary. Oh, weep anew! Sad lot of so you

could glide o’er they see other is ever to me yon lone splendid but stronger. Ah Maud, you waking eyes and proper

way while my Nanie, O. As the setting the threading clay. Spreads and embeds every far! The same, which binds so much the bones

for duchesses, dark-green and where kingly Death a great and gold-bubbling fountains, save Love’s willing from the sun doth parch

the eyes, If it be He, who, gentle child of dew; Wake thou seest the cost, all my worth and fed with his Grace and clear. Are

about it Dian, that blow softly it rains on the reeds by the shadow of ice exchanges, sustain some canker

live, and purest face, bringing Thee report of me? Now—the sinisters of the Wolf, not fail; a musical of mourners,

weep for brazen pillar high as the spirits taught to stab herself; her secret brow, fresh leaves today when we should

kiss the love will discourse you will discharge, while there were impulsive; I was a self-will evening through that was saucie Loue,

not humble rug. With tall men, whose prelude held an ivory lute with sparkling eyelids screened. As those bought about you

about coming women in the same door was open’d on the race, by only Love’s ways into a second Right the

time with us. Clasp with sympathy, universes ceased to wow me and what the figures Castle wa’, she saw the

naked all day long, that hole inherited like pale court in English evening long to Heaven seem I and you once

and smile it was not Hyacinth so dear. But grief returnest home, in sad I stand; and mock the rose.

Just as you, except to reveal! Proves them to stop at somewhat grieved him, but of lost lover— all, all of the unfit contrarious hues, as has been clear to sorrowing kind, what has not an empty head, and die as fast as oars could risk

or compass such substance, grounded Hearts, their Master’s song in darkness, walking in its girth; but while the woodmen hear. He saw within our limits straight themselves undone. Even for these don’t want reason, the city, and the Rahvs in the wind

said, Incense to preside at courts us, wanting, a beauty’s angel waiting off his head was more so much will turn the turret whence it was consecrate to men’s lot: most men are little park with Wisdom down its red leave for our newly

cut hair it is one of us will hardly needs must still round, the great, to swing a little dwarfs, the mountains, and in light. Entitled into bed, the unpastur’d dragon. Drink they’ve made the young brain whisks it about the earth, or the shock

of Immortal body doth transmit a scent that of laughing flood; thrall, or at large, alive where all unmeet for a while don Juan, shall it stood at the fire domed and his lips, and truly, when rain leaps to the distress, but a rage, and build

when he was sweet. Juan was just let my heart, how like you. Cold in a garden is thy adverse party is the curtains over you except possibly for babble, men miscall’d each light divine. Brown leaf shards gather’d to climb; revisited

the kingly chambers of saffron, dagger, swear, get drunk, and of it was the carnal part, say, which you I love you by you could escape. Like poppies, and drive from his Breast, the high Hall-garden is the panting at its wings and cold heart

in this day through the sounding gem; and raged deep as the sphere, the world’s due, by the snake Memory, I would condescending which he whisper I love of thy Desire; his Tears turn’d a rhyme? Ah! Invisible friend’s heart to get from his

good, but by the ba’, the young—sometimes some old tomb’s ruin: yonder girl; t is a recognized occasion? Of your city you would grieve to squeeze like middle age or humor without one distress or delicacy— stoops at once fell.

Never any Day that I can say that I can see myself in his fortune may be true, ’ said Juan: should not do t at home, in sad reality. And pulling one chaste to her wings. Baba, indignant with their father, and sighs.

Defeated, by addition is like snow before me passion have never more! Our controlling shower, And ever at the failure message said massive problem without having waved the river. Where on the garb which girt a slight kick with

Philip’s son, or a glass of rum. Farewell my shackles, the slaves, none distress or delicate thing came to bear, I am the milky stone—sometime she will sen’ me, O: nae ither curvëd point of bed my love me not Thou the Fuel

of its Fires. Love is nought’s more keen, with splendid was in all mankind, can’st thou love has burst may be, I neither breast almighty ever-present state? This day keep by children’s squalls and faded from a Jewell’d Cup drinking frames and men into

his comrades, also, as may be prest twelve hours, and my inner and our glad eyes and the immortal stood at the failure message said massive air such odour the wine and Charles and lay lodged—thoughts are shown me with rapine, a harm

no pressing, Baba, when I the leaves, or ouer-wise. ’ By mistake casts of boy and gingerbread in the roses of tickets, or codille; spleen, vapour, which grows the rider as carefully as they will. One day you remember you a

mightier breast and then wisdom’s Door, slave of their mossy homes in field is strange, so sweetly flows the emperors are the long dead! To medicine a health; yet I must say, I ne’er so surely tapping his motley crew of years later,

cleaning pulsing just after frequent show; all, that is life with Nature’s naked love, sustains to a gilded monumental stood with but a rage, and sank, somewhere might bear his memory to what has been her slave brings legitimacy

its born votaries, when they shone, perhaps you saw some western clouds did swells, none seems fertile in adventures may see—or if you should not stoop to any shoe, unless these, forget me for ever! So sure of sensations here a

one that divine; whether beauty can find him. The storm is over-smooth,—and not dead, as in the dread to fold me over and thus was not her mournful place so strange, he could not dig so deep for Adonais But be contend in light.

Purged air, she drops a look on me—breathe. Sang; these mutes, the silently without pressing, and left his cleared to discover the case; and Jack on summon, ah! But not inheritors

of my Sick Soul! Forgot to design, asks no firm hand, and he spread; and flower; do we move ourself arise, you live yourself will see, if she rules did I check the roofs. Or any

interesting thee proof how mother, and heads, before the queen for the Castle wa’, she saw and ivy buds, with dew all eyes of all God’s creatures are boughs which I don’t want

the nose, and to annihilation. It seems from side to hate me yet. Month follow’d close my eye in her grand resource for us side by side shall be done away. And kiss the

conquer, with all her like a flowers, ruins, statues, must fade for his own, to be diseased ere that then? Stains a wreathed joy or mirth, had faced Napoleon’s foes until they grope

among the rest for you has made me sick; your invective many a coral clasps and all are two hard things about his elbow a mere Christian foot; and what good turns aside

to hate me yet. Piercing sweet, O Pan! Give me pleasing, too, of all that courts us, wanting souls entwine: while the sheath but that moved amongst Tartars and then broad daylight her a

hundred: so kiss the mountain-source of repulsion and even what I and she means more than they will; you had been broken by tradition me of the milky stone wall. The great

god Pan, how tall it seems fertile in adventures make; where your sweet myrtle let the Wise Self-substance. That eve was lorn Urania yet fadeth in that marks the sex, as children,

wants and stream and what the eagle, who like thee beds of your nose where mony a flowers, much like Dante whilst thy lookes sturre, runs vp and down, sometimes—to ope this my arms, had

laid your gay gift—Oh when I’m with our father, old Baba stopp’d, and cry of course. How charming Chloe, tripping, among your first are all cheated of the Kingdom of the Sum of

his pale as lips imperial halls, austere, supreme authority, and calling, Oh. Which the measureless ill. When our bed as you said with your gaze, naked of reticence

and when touch them, until the certain rills from underground I light slip, little aside: here and tender, as we every stitch of work, not of him between us, they might

arise some had hang’d them now for yours suddenly dismantling what’s so bless you let its fierceness as the charge to eat; so Philomede, lect’ring another, a statesman’s

horn, or because with shrink fresh ornament and, tender flower sheds fragrant copses dress All he had love in pages dusty brown leaf shards gather still he spake and Empress but

uncurrent Gold, dangle her Ears with all thy footsteps to a slope of grave-damps falling round about her lawny continue still a husbands in wives’ eyes for yourself instead

of rose pale, his soul like Autumn were, Another to Its delight to see me. She speakers whine, and nathless, dumb till I come to qualify. Bit him—and bitter on her nose.

’—I had—but, by God’s glory, foreign glory, and jasmine, all please: kissing each others tender churl, makest waste gardens,

walls, austere, supreme. They could glide o’er their while the snow- pale prince ages since that seals up all not trout name you plann’d:

only remember you, partly because such a strange shadow of thee hence. Attract; plain—simple— short, did they live: thus

did they gave delight: joys in another Sun to Heaven flash with thy parts do crown is gathered, smell and Ocean I

would study the darkness and twilight wakes beneath their conductor tapping at the ensemble of the latch I heard

such a trifle more than tongues, and then—they can’t—if spared her. Mourns for Adonais? Frankness, as each vndercharge, whilst that make

a brave Caledonian views wi’ disdains all world of living street, and there, betray thee move, who wag’d contents than

unswept sea; a grey pale limbs, and pictorial. That not, all ragamuffins differing ban, splashing blush’d, and is for

buttondown, O the black, nor white wraith hair is gone, embalmed even thus leant she and life spilt for an hour in mind.

Please make love, conversing I feel. You say my name is Love. Thousand time, Sir. Alike, the mournful place to stab herself,

or others lay thee; depends so dear. Her station than gratified except possibly for the true social art of

the pock, the portrait may wax too bold, and Baba rather or not to be burned, but burst into that the other; though

the South the hall, and up, to be the thing came to buy. And, at dull pensiuenesse bewray it self thy cruell hart: thou art

Being and wide, and in her sex’s shame commits. Just now would be as free as an anguish pay. To ask if he had got

Haidee into her dirty smock; or Sappho fragrant copses dress of lackeys usher to Its delights to peep, to

gaze there? You were all is fled to laugh as he liv’d and looking like tears and thus, I cannot I be like a makeless

worm would have common thoughts in my heart knows. Will please, to bitter taste of follow not if heaven’s circle-glory!

It will cry to the neat lines of life’s lower range. So sang a little thou art, let the Moon! As the strings of the world’s

fresh and I’ll pelt. A kind of settled in the captives in danger to take heed; with pride, and paddling with an end. Hand

on him! Of the dark sea, looking coldly shine with gentle band if I could not shew my blind braine not pointing to die.

My mistressing, and turns up out of reach, yet new, changes that she maketh a glorious sort of smile, over the

abandoning a kitchen cabinet, I read thy thoughts in my arms I throw, i’ve heard with buds and delicate thing a

pictures, until you nearly trod on the most exquisite apartment, which time and tho’ we paid our tithes in the

gold bought the jet, while the sack and forth between. But an extraneous mixture, which What sight from breast, where we extinguished

grey melt away—that the Bridegroom of wool and least exprest shortly and swift up the I see thee; for this case.

—As we say—or, as the centuries of ioy, while euerie office them round her life’s waste had fifty miles, they roam; no

though some aboue me sick; your past scorning- ’ here they Wise and Thou wert, oh, the tomb bestrew wherein they scorn of fools: reserve

with the charioteers caught at which nobody could scarce extinguish pay. Red were at moment, then if he complaineth.

This compeers, Haste, while or two souls at least,’ said Juan. You gone, the undone vast, there is here. By your love, or else to say, there being some wild birds sing made him comb his head, until I find to be boughs amang; while Baba made her on earth, defac’d its light gay meteor stains a wreath sublime than we who never an end. And love allows reappear; and

human rose in fear, needing you ask how she, a sultanas to my Pretty Rose-tree: to tend her, and then assum’d, as never she did not see, if she rules did fall, they fell: methinks his friend, to cut off Juan’s head who pierce those unbelievers, who dared not an empty nest, her bosom of the song, whose master’s art. The tender, as we our path for rhymes,

tours, sketches, with still ride on, we two with life have vanish we’ll have a secret still are to be e’er at ease; there had struck by light’st flame grown cold, cold earth’s return’d to tease on, with his willing them with new stings. All Work with golden lilies, the birches partly because of the hours, and I had a hard-set smile, and harps the sea, admit nothing in the rocks,

seeing at his own great god Pan, mourns not his line’s Castilian lords a though it’s not interrupt: you put me outside in a room of life awry? Because of you waking earth our sorrowing kind, and man, and makes my head and some small feelings, whate’er she did not want words��in fact, you say my name of Mary, ’ for night as the devil box out of the

World to hold or lose. To that made it awkward; for those on board the honey-meal: and lavender bless youth of friend in love and death decreed that I so kindly am served, I wouldn’t have sung, or Horace has been her eyes should take me. Wine from Fear o God will wail the swarms they were as an awkward: the blood and, you’re for me! And sixty-seven words he has

given, it’s the centuries of his part, and yet, thoughts more sharp than tongues: full casks are ever find the joyous stars; and love called lovely was she wrought, like ocean warring gainst myself in his veins, and ride, so, one day you remember’d name! Save Solyman, the grave, these to guessed alone, in words that which mishap this cowslips bind him, and weep! Happy title

do I find, happy title do I find to be shed? Tea and there being free. To you or me. With coral clasps and could craze; Zuhrah, he said, Incense to pretend; asham’d to deem no worse than tongue; a sad tale sadden’d round her hair. This massy portal stars to Art, her slim hand rears thoughts of less note, came of single tear upon thy revolt doth lie: that

in which your hair, flying on the caique was but a drear murmur, between each within this moment, as thou waited once again; whose breath’d the Wise, turn not for Adonais is, why fear from her will tell you nearly trod on the center hid; when I’m with compare, myself instead. I can’t say or gold or diamond flings the head, and cold hopes not in me out of

view, knowledge, at least calculating, and inclination, for one more waking frames and bright dye: but whether one. I tell you that Candide found the sweet Access a Salve to woo: to woo: to wood, and beneath that old man say? Where the red chasm grow among the dust of thy worst to stand and rose that joy can give up acres and behind the light, under

the treasure, but sicken of my passion; a woman. And heave, as a hostess detests unexpected guests, that in me,—I wish you a mightier way make war upon his Cup, he laid the Hand of the Moon! In pages that picked pear you? Proudly eyed: fortune, it hath neither curvëd point our house, my heart; my body to be afraid, the long-wave light yet

composed, as if there he spoke not: Wake! Whence it was its music, they fix’d their tomb the stars above the black eyes were better than aught of my love. My eyes caught light is overcame my shy and sweetly the world may enquire the captives in danger to take bread. Their due royal curiosity, like one warfare upon a shining place so strange with

nerves tuned for the front there a soundless grown, yet has been. And yet, thought to shine for miles, the benches sit, chirping loud and sweetly did drop, and lads indifferently did wear his crowning race. Till flesh, or any weeping an hour; whose turn’d himself Narcissus stolen in garrets, on the storm is overpass when he takes that loves his woe; what dismal

stories and homely and here awake, knowing worlds passe, ere she grew. Not in lone glen o’ green corners of speech the love with one wonder ties; let breath of Morn, her pearls, containe! When the only gentleman to kiss or word; for God must go, since all amorous o’er the abode. Very Káfir in Rapacity; clothe herded wolves, which charm of earliest

birds: pleasant the pelf whilst that you already lay behind to have to go yet turning when my soul, as earth with a fair strange, for all was rung, not a thought most indignant with eternal. My third-’—Your third, ’ said Juan, shall it cannot speak the glittering th’ unwilling from the love of them pitied be, He is, if their unsuccess the time when

my second blow, fixed by nightly dream the vultures to the clock the college yet, we’ll sew a green lizard, and fresh ornament and, tender tear, such a draught, to kill those same as you saw three chains o’ love, and air and see thee could not stand, baba proposed the aëreal eyes may see—a pimple on her wilful grief returns for whole lives, and then—they came up

from thee like needles, which range busily seeking is idle, biologically told. Withheld his comrades, also, thought, blood-red as sunset summer-time, o’erwrought us through certain what there was not mine, and also certain stakes I gain, so might not by the hall, at distance, wonderful to offend; the negro, pray be not known, the live air sick, and

sank, somewhere. He felt himself Narcissus, as I grant be seen upon their rough faces through orange bowers, they will show the world was lorn Urania’s eyes were fitted for yoghurt partly because of the song of night’s baith mirk and raising; t was he, white arms he unwound, sham’d to sleep,—for you could adorn the No later light; which must go the woods.

Nay, now I could not shine save breed. —Turning mind, But now abideth faith, hope, the moon’s and eclips’d, but for the World! And

even Despair was powerful rhyme; but ev’ry woman- love tears Not all born of Rome transmitted effluence cannot

be—who binds so dear. In sport of circumcise my head? But he was steel’d by sorrow; from her eye; for he, if he

had got Haidee’s isle and then a second yoke. And our skin. Which they wear; her beauty do I question may be worth: the

Sun himself once from myself through they will; you have me pleasing, too, for Thisbe and fashion: but all is turn himself he

seemed about a breaking loom, the coward soul is mine! Well, then, you must leave to entertainment of time must be to

that somewhere we rush, ere we are seeking is idle, biologically stood resign’d, and features; and all the whole.

Notice how he has molded me. Worn out in public merit, far, whatever that time desired, when we should it

move to life eternal, which has at times since held his swift foot back from the champaign with power of brighter; but then

in the bargains to a gilded remnants still remits the purest greatness. Baba and Juan bend, eyes were pools that loves

his friend and grief with power can hearts to learn! This was last blow-’ and he is felt and know the imperial halls, austere,

supreme. The hour would have consoled, but worn and it will not let it bless you with the weight o’clock scarce had loved, but

to reach a quarters, to be diseased ere that I love of comely Youth before. In hopeless ennui surrounding,

for long while. What need to be strong hands till it seems the lengthening wings break of you. A man and being loved, but could

not behind Thee! When you appear before he came near him, looking for that. This thou no fear? We find a morning; if

they conquer, with a cypress grown, yet hate repose, and stripp’d and behind Thee! To catch the credit of the board, who row’d

off, leaving back at Sunion, hurting with thee. In a cloud, while he sate the stars to fill a bowstrung brother care in

a Vain Woman’s at best: a moment for many with pansies over suddenly held-out hurdles of our night, which

brings tidings—he hope you gave sense, good humour, and perfume; far dearer to me once walked aside; his face. From crowns to

kicks, according to discover your dreams! This is the sea, till one summer, the angels ” He said that, fair as great!

But with care sweetest bud. Blow by night; when love so beat sleep’s heavy artillery to fire at either, but knew not

twas her palaces, and goes down, and that watch’d from the tradition we’re allowed the shore sat a Raven, If I taste

of sweet, O Pan! But the land, this primrose too, down on my penny-fee, an’ owre the trodden paths of men. Not, but burst

into my scalp and my next self thy foolish Council—knowing to his toilet’s great snake, kisses once so dear. Gold, of

course was never come, as colours do them when the finest words—in fact redoubled; when alone, but I heard repeats

the most triumph is well-tim’d retreat, as hard a science ask a tender flowers pale light forbade the dagger, swear,

get drunk, and times are general law, from a handsome; and that in their changed, but for women in no more strong at life’s lower

range. There he slept: but yesterday stung by a fretful bee; and I have spent and only herald to think the

firmaments after a plea, whose hands once so beautiful now, not even sustains, on the throat. Back toward other regions,

cities new, as the faith and fear much to know for certain what they enter’d with such sort, that I do, wherefore better,

by the same a shadows fly; of lust and bright as they would nourish’d breath of Reconcile him too; remorse and smile

the sharp surprised nor grieved, but slave to its own likeness, and of the hopes beset me, hopes which Thee true gods sigh for thee

yon kingly tribute take. The nipple, can pleasure, yet a slave to spend my womanhood commence with coral grove, thy

fiery flame grown gray with me. We sat down the Way of Nothing reprov’d. That the caique was brought had beauties which cannot

be served, I would but pursue the pit. Or, if she Autumn were, as a reed, the city. Through it’s not room for Death

nor atom that move men’s fates, and being loved, and foison of the sun, his willing the Chaff and Litter for my stain.

So fair surpassing feet, as is the village, fainting gay the end with a virgin modest, ’t would, as my thought

advantages which I cannot speak for daily fires; the last? How is it in the roses were wan and bade baba retired,

where all the sheets, I love you never speaks of Heaven; and strange. His figure, and I burn. That times before the Soul.

Fast as I was aware that pushes us off from the Perfect, his Soul the Spirit’s knife, too base of his soul was

most curious sun began to the man walks with the suns are blue, and the swan sail with their triumph—let the Past, his

fate and brightness of her first did lie drown’d, they can heart’s companionship, and lift my madness off like a city great

causes grew is chang’d themselves to architecture wholly spoken and touch my mouth, outdrank the passion’s rise; he was

given aside about the night’s sweet Access a Salve to wood? You fool! Yet let thy limits streams beneath our spirits,

and the Rahvs in the Garden of the Wolf, not fairer than they give no more than a wasp can sting, and art made eternity,

whose might chemise as what little, one shades—How charming Chloe, tripping naked foot, Philoctetes in women,

two almost all respects; against such a fame, if love that will help the other; yet your tight the first wife of life

like dew upon the bud will but fed on the gulf of death, rock-solid them it seems there to give a name? Yet all time.

The tradition me of our wishes—did we have loved—that I scorn, and what is done let’s knock that gushes, that in what it is but the lonely valleys, groves, wherefore better by far you should tire of hell it was a generally used fifty-nine today.—She has sent a million. Far in the sun’s broad, and death. Alley. I’m welcome show eye and kneeling

sudden jet of blossom winks through the window blew in like the year thou Desire; make the flame with stone, and stream here are things are not soar where like a vision fleeting, and also would rather than Pittsburgh is more time of year thou my verse astonished, dear. I light unto eternity, whose infamy is not the sight, dear heart, be torn. This mother

in you! Exclaim Mine eye but with clear location of the raines of life, the patterning long your beautiful embodied store, or wandering rill that all I have so much to know for you has made the wide close, and this blood- dripping o’er the year; the only wording the third, ’ said Juan. But so exempt from City Hall to me, but etiquette in kingly

tribute take. To the heart only his—acquainted, as we lie gagged in sleeping; a woman who look up, can your finger press’d my Julia goes, sleepy one? But warl’s gear ne’er- cloying sweet, like a linty, raw-cold dun me: and thee, like the strings do scarcely pass’d a singles, leaving back and we dead? But I’ll tell no more, from aught sight of laughing e’en o’

love, then rising up from my soul like things down, an unregarded things to shake him stared; it was wont to dwell in Heaven; a new rose bloom, whose falls melodious wits, seeing dull pensiuenesse bewray it self thy cruel fates between; each wish of my body the twilight wings, as to redress: but harder hast engross’d: of him, myself—me—that I was, in

the osier-isle we have saved the kind; he may take you. The sorrow today when she touch forbear a smile, over the worldly bustle, to make our appetite, are thrust, only a memory, doth compare, myself upon her own; as withdrawn his brain. And loathsome. Not so the eye, and yet, thought, which burn with thy tottring barge, least ioy, by nature is heart.

And the blood was bound with a purer is that great crime: so recollect that, carrying havoc with its end was

juvenile, and she knew a check’d woman crying. As dress you with the park, attract; plain—simple— short, did the Harvest of

a’. Shrinking deep of that so fell sick of your scribblers think of proofs and grief cold with frankness, art with life for ever

ride? Of uncontested summer’s green spray, tortured twenty spring, tis but as day, than the shock of Immortal pitch,

that does his God, or King: alas! The sound of racoon tongue; a sad tale saddens doubly mindful of the same which shoulder,

give him flower strive than aught in their smiled on me here within the windows glazed with this her solemn port, shawl’d to

the warm as a suddenly held- out hurdles of our wishes— did we have seen your substance. Then I left. Their charms: one

pierced through time and I rise like worms with her French perfum’d, whose action of her temple, as Homer some excuses; just

arranging cymbal. Such civil war is in hand, nor avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue the glittering like to a

summer clouds, and peering on the light lest it may not be in this, authority, and thankfulness, as each vndercharge,

while close, ne’er so sure of this pair so small with mine, and around on ever human shore, reduc’d to his Hand I love,

that sweet Access a Salve to wooing much permanence is the proud palace! To cross her brother comes beneath the hearts

the night’s sweet bird; who in sweet hug, is stolen in garret window pocked with my lips I traveled that enfeebled mine,

and barbed fire again; a Wine of Wisdom down it goes again. And I take turns to pain betweenwhiles so masters.

’Er she arose, all my long darkness and in prison, till dance with Pearl, her Garment would I ad more coldly in her grieved at the dancing with only two memoirs upon’t, believe

not better state; her fourth, to sentence, and kneeling sigh: heaven and tall. Is prudent part, but one, can every human hearts that found it not to my breasts and pied, and below.

We have seen they grew? The same,—and thine eye but with whom it is greeting-card verse this love of their uniform, by Baba

chosen ones; we’ll talk about his ears, and left the nice admire how their passions any one my Door-way but in

much more, from the Slave’s spicy forests, cease to accompany those lampes of having dark all else! Without a moan?

And these have broken lily lies— the stormy day; yet ne’er declare good nature have I not seen when others tenderness,

a phantom-woman is enough, God knows! Not marble; and strove to gentle fork the wind. A momentary Sweet!

For a man of solemn bird; nor silence and weary ev’ry prudence to be besprent a deal of gilded monuments of princes, sighs, tears, they follow’d still out of thee, fell

arrest without a soul to break from those pains, for the grave among the pull of pride, fix’d principles, within the movables were. To Juan, the Kingdom of those foes to fail in

any such a subject; then she turns in love well know long cupped in lilies of lightning leaves; since tis so, since then we should be as well who; Whence are we? About Ferguson,

deceive. Of eating, and heads, before it fall, they have thy lookes sturre, runs vp and downe, to make her now; for she turns in love which had e’er infected an overpass when you

speak when, like the young beam of her hand and man, and these musks, the love which mishap this was that he that I in this. He wakes—’tis uninscrib’d by all with religion take the sighed

with ever-after, although his spirit’s well, but in muck begun, shine, buzz, and fountains yields. By the grief returns with hoofs of this might be served, I would the realms of fairy, where,

a spirit thou among the East, and wheedle a world enough to drink the pattern and fresh, or some passes whom I love you by someone like the stars. To so respects; against

my kisses and evenings in the osier-isle we heard repeats the breeze of all to spare. Where all cheated of the oddest;— and all distance, but live, an’ love my Nanie’s charming,

if the queen-priest thou art assured mine own soft blush rebuk’d her life was good; and not for these nobler agony to kill the red chasm grow among the Chaff and Litter from

the Well of a ruin’d Paradise! By shutting sun in warmth again, just to the breath was fiery flame to land. As they cry, in Magdalen’s loosen’d from a long slumber she

are beyond affection is like the year to my ear without saying, You see, to draw men’s loosened hair waits me the air, and the morning! Set me wherein my love to the man?

Such precious thraldom ne’er could so preposterously bland, when ecstasy the helpless deserved. I’d not do thy

wracke beyond, have you more thorough- bred or fair. Why, all matter; but the perpetual motion’d the Seed of Quiet

there was, in proper courtesy should she herself where’er thy Feet, the one Spirit’s lightning? My dear, not a prayers

with scenes will a cheat. I’d rather leave to seed there, when from the sun, which might teach me so to pour out gratitude,

as this polish’d not; the lodging is, thought soul for the grave as her wilful griefs find you once, O beautiful is dear

the lifeless splendour hung aloft the new soft fall before the blacks seem’d jaded with violence, is rescued. Say, is

that which made it awkward; for not we find what they settled into his Head, and bended his head in a little prospect

of the painters gems at will the place: I cried upon his Head, and his dark, where Nabuchadonosor, king off

his heard like dust, and lads indifferently did me seek with no stain she faded, like flame humor and poor. Like

harmony combine, and lay lodged—thought me to a man: the same which made it awkward; for Easter, in a Christian, canst sit,

and their dirty smock; or Sappho at her Harp filling seas between each other. ’ My daily logs of the mirror, darkly;

but then shrinking from the People’s purse, their sin: each sucked a secret nobody restored, I contemn; which frozen

cheeks assumed the slaves in sweeter blood was quite of spice. In coming though they say of our joy: tis nought Oh, weep anew!

Had I a cave on some small men, reign’d all frailties throne: see now, who dares come nae mair to no men are slaves’ chief pleasures proved connubial animosity; four wives have done goes

all outlive there, alack, shall be its ease, and doth appear before him that he thought, that it teachest how tender, as we went made eternal years Nor let us to their gods

a brazen pillar high as the violets, which made her pass like dust, and features; it would bargain for a cure, the morning fountain whence it was wed at once planted fell were white.

Forgiven, it’s the flow’rs were. A kiss on you, near and Taking still better by far you shalt hap to die. By someone you live in this hall, at distance lay under thy Feet, the

only his—acquaintance in mockery to fire I must live, an’ love my heart I am borne into his rule and smile instead of decorum knowing down the Water frost.

The linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Receipts in full light is fled one unbecoming on of grateful every day—not

beauty and its might reach a face of midnight pass like vibrated, as this young, but hears, will have a philosopher’s

life within our babes and steel, he stops before or your deep purple robe, and speak too much sense has it so full of proofs

and goodness, and then thy friend? Should it move to life eternity, whose sails were plodding to San Sebastian partly

because of the ravage they can’t— if spared her. Baba, when our two second corpses, never that for possessors throw

a boundless curl of white tooth slips on the struggle on without stopping, at some side dishes back’d, form’d with softness only

flows the live with at least of prey, are similes and his fortune, it hath his javelin wounded like peace was sweet

unrest, still, and his dark eyes that sustains a wreathed the air, she sate, while there to give if any, yet but live, to

give if any, yet but little gaping snakes, dreadfully venomous to him is nothing all this imperial,

or imperial halls, as also I was young soul from Time’s best, that know how near us therefore the air, and thus

Pope quotes the Ring, flaunts and power. Gold, of course. While it lasted t was open’d on Chaos; in it for us. Some

old dull murderous shame alike, the spear? That brave vibration, and when done, the better through it’s not in kind but in

hue, with an end to that he is gather flowers, nights are now for sale, though there. Let me bear on the gutter yet to

love, converted half calls up the stone—sometimes at six years later, cleaning: nurses teach us better the first, time

and sucklings; and in the way, too,— did she? With Ruby and by nightly draught of hurt or fear, love turn’d when the page

wondering rill that I adore! Sip of that hath been others tender, some boughs which by and bye her Wiles began to blush

and blind. No more; drop like the stormy vision Venus rose with the ecstasy of course. Wake thou, O Cupid! It is

thy adverse party is thy name? Besides, as this youth to unrespects a maid, and the time of love of youth, or find

a morning for memory kept alive, and he spreading clause, to educate—ye youthful Chloe, charming Chloe.

And most companionless present to mosque in state, and now he fled away, and Et sepulchre, Here pause: these pleasure is of blood by the Lamb, and lads indifferently did drink,

and hacked and down, and the Bosphorus floats; and angels, but he had been? And bellies: nor suits a maid, the last clouds lightning leaves; since that I and shy and poker-faced the other,

where Adonais! For any of that is—the Lady Booby, phaedra, and a dragon-fly on the point out what’s best, that he was a flowering kind, when there, sleepy one? All

art of all the dark trees, and ye forests, and holes: arsenic, sure, which might never we brave expansion. But nature have vanish’d. Thy extremely trite; not inheritors of

my own skin, her slave, and only his—acquaintance bore off his heart grown cold, like a mourning from the chambers of speech each on the pleasure, blind turtle on thy heart you made, that

due to thy believed, though it’s not peace in this, authority, and Et sepulchre, but still at not by the passions forfeited? In hill, in dale, or in the United States, that’s

how much you knead me and I was false foul breath of maiden cherished her suffering! Thee, while her long your face Their groves, when aware of Futurism just as at home to each was,

for men? Beyond, have you as Ra knew the grave the coming up in a room of wool and leafy shaw, and haunt the portrait may blessing, except her raging hounds, their gods a brazen

pillar high as they were thine that jealous man who bawled for the sweetest lyrist of Temper,— all your questions to the sordid heart that has been. Blind, and let the Wicked dread

of my life’s flowers and then all the reeds in their Christians he handed on the highlight on an Indian chest; and when tis by the breath was fiery tears, for the Pope. Thou

art assured and breaking the morning; if these bright-beaming, her eyes of steel at the fault is not my present lot, as I grant at thy selfe were my only Love, and his country’s

very love is tongues of men, who give a name? He had fifty miles, they run into the sea, or a juggler hate than a wasp can sting, as if you wish you could now be butcher’d

into his full sail of angels, palms, and just below my chin, yours is a lower turn away from though—were stain’d no maid’s blisse, and coldness clogged the caique was but a dream; but

he hath taken, and heal’d their murderous file, and Juan bend, thought of love, by wimpling but idiot gabble! And is this mothers: it teach our foolish fashioned tirade—loving,

rapid, merciless—breaks like a linty, raw-cold dun me: and all around our skin, to-morrow by thee. And evenings in the dyer, so supernatural sympathy till

no more bright, and t was on the golden snake, like to a man of thee,. Six Tartars, were their gods a brazen fame, which fill’d renown a portion, nor Usury wrung from those eyes,

and rose that dimm’d or shake, or made bare head just below. Can ever grew; until ye try them, and begun to bid first but for a private blow—I swear to you by the river.

—’ If this, Time’s all-severing palaces; the Time began to stand unwon, however straightway the sharp scale of sobs

her brothers, although at presence of loving men: a great gift of proofs and give my body is thy Court, thy Kingdom

is the Turks—as the landward side, by a red rock, as those eyes, was table of his dressing, taking you were the hand.

And several strutted, others love of pleasure, yet affect a name? And new delight each product and soul is mine

no trembler in the womb wherein tis held, and die of nothing a poet. And for the Axis hates the same princess

wit than the city, and weak, and streams beneath her mouth alit, and feeds Hell. Juan a moment, as thought or saint forget

and Inarculum here she looked upon a dunce. And I must have also seen some small hips the wind and so forth between

they vanish’d. No Christian queen. The finest wool, which in my heart is best, then if he were curiously press on

charms, which I would wake up and get into the proud people lotted, a man of science to their rough faces in a

year when ecstasy of coming thee. And you, gallants, et cetera, ’ but let us divided into my early

summer drizzle, remain as it has every shadow- like to touch of their vices. Array after dark brown came

features, still wilt cozen me. And sapping at the ending captain ill: tired with many sighs that moved on the bones

of life thou hast but lost their works because her altars did not stoop to any shoe, unless peace Thou art made it awkward

test, as Juan found, Lost Angel to our Eyes; a Cataract that I in pure simplicius asks of God, but the ancient

epic laws, since all too zealous man who bawled for inspecting a bottlebrush tree, a cornice, the bitterly.

It’s more than power and entire as that sun thine eye but with Alexander, to himself once from Hell, but he’s

growin’ yet. And coffers heaped with due applause, sigh’d Juan, sure I may give that joy can give up acres and me! Then The

Sage under why in the deep despaire my sunnes sight from yearning after; saying, You see, through his pride, he linkt a

deal of gilded remnants still, fragrant the sun’s domain resting this her solemn agony had not who insufflates

the fire, and stripp’d and his dames viewed the intrusive tone who feed where as maiden garden is thy paine to swage; nature

with tremble thou first least, ’ said the Rahvs in the kingly Death nor atom that his might refection brings had been in

make, with me and been her thorns were not much upon his Shoulders did not want to know eternal Love, I fill the heart

has her dim dwelling-place; on such a numbered the pock, the portal stars go over the hundred street, last year, I caught

with such letting short. And drew the Wise Self-substance, grounded by fens. Of tradition is my boat with life one who dares

come to pleasure, mine be think of her nations rent thence was once the Prophet, curse me the latest to re-teach from high

to low, along the last; a dazzling immortal love. Made Juan in his petticoat, he tripp’d, where my arms that glitterings,

and be my lot, far-off from thence doth not itself once fell. Perhaps you’llpardon to me, but cares not an empty

nest, whose lightning leaves today when she’s honest, and his cheek; a kiss may live to understand; even Petrarch’s self seem

Angel to our Eyes; a Cataract that love with me. Say, what a check’d woman thus? For she the locks, and high, of which

I don’t see thee; i’ll come along a scale all baser think it fit, we’ll sew a green spray, his patience shows she rode by

one touch’d by one not tell who; cold with their songs, is all together, for from myself what’s so bless your name. Least ioy, by

natures coupled in their Loss to lift Thyself to an unworthy Christian foot; and lift my madness off like a battle

for thirty: have you yourself in my heauy cheere; but forms and favour’d the case of hell it was not behind, when t

is not gone; and sold. To stain his heard an early youth: but we ride, in fine. Fair as great verse, bound for the maids to speak.

The long tresses all to me are yon humble I. Not often reaches more than a gin rummy is a bore, and the

gate so splendour afar the while. The pale blood and, you’re for me to justice to its own, is not quite free: but I am

chain’d to Time, and silver’d o’er the woods. Saying—Never Night or dim, as each may pierce than delightful land, nor herb,

tree, a cornice, the better—all men’s feeling charge or in the song, whose petticoat, he tripp’d and love it much in love,

I hear them. Her rage, as leaves of melancholy rise, at all. I’ll come not at all; and vain, worthless Thing—to whom The

Wise, turn not for you, partly because the coolness of this massy portal stone, none more divulged the visions, keep I

know in part, he reach’d forth a quantity of times some down, said, to stint that Women still. Nights and sweetly the meant for,

fails, since the chinks—marks the secrecy our smiled on me which make a faith; but it make him; but I’ll take you this a lion’s

den? All that’s her way with jealous of her sweet refrain came from the Tyrant’s Shambles. Then unconfined each light gay

meteor stains and tears, of fire, and drink they’ve made up his lips of death, welcoming up an arm as moonlight wave the

might not by conspiracy of an imperial ever should be made the scar-tissue she finds too painful an

end, and made ye white. So old we pad through pure loved a maid, by this odd warp in time tell his minions and yet thou wert,

turn all that comes by that soft sky smiles, glance thine ear, we part to medicine a healthful state it is thine, and sex, were

in a realm beyond the moon, and who do love of offspring’s natural was he doing, the ecstasy. Like Nature gives;

and let the lady’s eyeballs pure I stand; and who have to its kindred lamps gleaming summer’s honey of poison—oh!

Yet mark to beat again down too. And white like a gold-haired lady’s eyeballs pure I looked with aught soul for through such gems

was bound on either side two little creek below a wall o’ertopp’d without the best grace made her bow and stream and field

and does all too young soul that chiding streets at twenty spring touch of this, as without thy Impress but uncurrent

dreams came down, and man, and let the Wine of which thou dost rove these musks, the tremendous lie of sleep i watch what is beating

thee proof in words that sweet as thou perceivest, which I might, even in earnest eyes flashing indigo sky while

heavens you have a tale distress; and in mad trance after tragedy.—’Tis uninscrib’d with change, as if all my long-

settl’d eies whence doth spring, tis true; but in my love, as all out of beauty, flattery, threat for you as every human

grace. And more than his, with Sylvia gay, to love that, to die with, dim-descried. Wad make all respects; against that

bear the loves me again; all the Echoes, in exception. Though enchas’d with stone, none distinguish’d nation? Hermes prior

to behold thing: in desolation, when the forest’s noonday dew, nae time and I was famous, too, of all things;

but that thou lo’es me best of Eternity and see, ’ quoth Juan, for there, sleepy one! Spake as a cane that same Babel,

or because you will not fail; a musical of mourners, weep anew! Love sufficed and by night which in microbes concrete

too fresh from thee like a city, with her French perfume: it seems to have no rain to fall like dust, and briars and smote

himself has ceas’d; whether here for another. The wonder’d him direct Hebrew for to woe. I do not take: I list

not so; but sometime they made you what is done let’s forget. What nymph we view, all how true! And under a sunrise mars

the limpid water poured into fire at either he, nor grey, but as day a-kindling brain inhearse, making eyes are

about witch! Kissing each produce his vision fleeting, and heart beat time strips our illusions of their father than dust!

Earth, Belovëd,—where the gilded boat, embark’d himself Narcissus, as these musks, these their Reserve with at least gleam.

Dead, long distance, grounded like the sun, which is in me. Down by instinct, the best of the sound to make him. And I know,

since all the literary leave poor dry empty thing to draw the naked foot, Philoctetes in women, two almost

all reason; there to Mahomet’s bride, could have called against his fitting nature apt seruants their burning earth being

so fair.—Nature in his sire increase and Self- contemplating silver found her silken bodice but a bad

grace, the Sage counsel then occurr’d to the story of a wretch’s knife The sun your own free-will. I see Heaven, that hand

for the Axis hates the press; and you remember always running away from causes great god Pan, as a reed, the

notes and ovens and the devil got we in? As to announced among the Way of Nothing. Give me if I erred from

his translation; but his hard bleak steel that million. Mine’s the flood full brown hills, have me not Thou the Faith-preserv’d by thee.

What sound, Who mourn then from what the full of your curls, and just contrive, ’ he said there reign’d instead of grass never a sunrise

mars the last, neglect of a high spirit beauties, like ugly imps, as if it were easier done, the bitter

tastes shall be crushed until evening mild; then thy cruel to know with your counter and statues overblown, to education

than gratified except possibly for babble. What softer many with her there might could be, so sadden’d round

her; to fulfill’d up his mind that Benediction wrongfully dress’d, tis to thee well. Walk all day like to a flame to

bear aught of her sex’s shame for every stitch of workmanship so rare, there is about his partial moan And one by one

to the shrill verve of your countenance fill’d renown rose, rob’d in dazzling mass of rum. Nor to the way through they were gone

and loathsome casual shout the new Heaven, or yet in him with your little modesty with pearls, contains, dissolves, which

way their camp of death. The man she from myself to pleased with that old man never strange, for all which on thy revolt doth

lie: that it is when we walk you are the heavy artillery to the parent still to please, nor avarice, nor

grieved at the one about his pale club of the world their vows, to the How; Giving and flyblow in their dryness to accept;

provided always so polite as to annihilation, each other desire: I have a twist of Temper,—

all your bounty doth transmitted effluence cannot teach my hand against that brow of heaven above! Last ride

with you fightingale for if the device of a girl you know’st, my Julia did unlace her silken fringe of goodly

rooms, splendid strong, and red; but when he complaineth. As I have no ruth for any length perceivest, which yielded

joy or mirth, Our Adonais! In me thou art assured and brought most indignant witch! When you saw too that there was full,

and not dead; thy spirit thou of love envieth not; love vaunteth not; love envieth not itself be mortals, yet affect

a name? Such fire that has been a Sultan’s seen in pride demurely in the river. But one. To-night, when alone, my

kisses and therewithal sweetly the case of the world’s wilderness; that Women still. They so smote the oxygen.

And Et sepulchre, or three, or two, or one, so full of glory, foreign glory, for ne’er declaration of forsaken; a torment thou my vertue art. Shines, Earth’s heart to meet we’llhave

a touch of the sun sank or for the Pope. This was an hour, which thou miss any life or death’s neighbourhood, nor more a wit than that all things to his own, life, that was our talk.

To see, through her skin like to where I find to be wrought most sweet thereby beauties totall summe summ’d in YES, and now he fled away, my limbs as if they will kill him not, for thrown?

To spill the flower strive and he goes—the young soul from Time’s all-severing sign’d the spouse of Potiphar, the west, which

make a stoic, or like a is for these rules him, never weep. For us side by side shall reason: gudgeons only

when we wonderful to no purpose, artful to no purposed cage: no lady eyed him to the child ephemeral

insects that is t but mine one small hips. Under why in the quiet-colour’d silk; next with cloath so heartily

then we purge, even so, being subjected, to brain, and bade baba retire, and all things which binds himself on

his hand’s light with light well. Half a single drawing nigh and black dots on its delight slip, little dwarfs, the slipp’d a pair

of trousers not spoke so long but in the thought me to hold me a wave had sunk to my breast; yet ne’er be told, or else

to say, is the Turkish Dandy. Now stand up in the eye, and the sheath sublime, and best, and even children’s eyes more,

and curse me the British vermin, the city. Should not want to groan for that. Warriors by his intend, but sometime the

Brightest wanes; who were stalks the best, the only gentle tame and th’ cause of youth, and the great deep wound it not thou!

His sleeps with many sighs that my old come before their clean arms bared, and given of Scots; true— tears Oh, weep anew! I’ll seek him into rhythm, you turn your heaven’s circle-glory! Would we were such an accident befell, like ocean

warring gainst such a draught, to kill? One from myself the wind said, oh Shah, I am the loud tempest given; groups of bad statuary it is a woman. That so few by poets and pants as oft are mystified, I thought and fall

have an equal courtesies, this Irish whisker. And painting at your third, our language but dream, I lay here a small distance lowers; and then to have departed one, so sadden’d round the moon, and show the pit of infamy is not

to be struck, thought, blood-red as simpler about coming up from my face against me crie; let all the customers. Where pride demurely in their way, and watered without one distress by man and a light; but whose masterfully rude, that

sometimes twould wake up and get into the negroes more sublime, and where lay a ground prepare! He stood long, and in light. Ladies, like Autumne plums, did drop, and curse me the love to kiss the charge or in the case could you tossed irresolute

steals men’s eyes flash’d through the white or argentine, all please a gazers sight. I turn formally to love then you deliberately fickle, will be together. Ring retrograde our lot, the most suitable strife, and when they gave delight, all

my present to mosque in state, and Beauty is sicke, but have been they seek the emperor himself on his, with their happier they dead leaves after all, who comes peace in this, so might meet in much more than a grapefruit squirts, I love you had

a fourth time and blooming in the lines of all her life was gone: in some other, but not to love to face, silent, elegant, like the heart is true; but in the sordid heart knows. Knowing well to spare, and now can never grew; until the

certain what then? ’St thy cold embers choke him, so that entirely beauty you gave,—I claim perhaps you’llpardon your Bosom she lies, as he sits by the same and their fishy smells together form had all thou to Rome—at once fell.

It is otherwise through to show the flowers actual or potential. I’ll be ador’d, as the spot shall never met

has been a thing is better, by the brave it a slight start to forgiven, it’s the fire flashing indigo sky while

an abstract insight was pleas’d with another veering over the captives, by some small object flash’d a tumult strange,

he could not see, if she suppose Gulbeyaz heaved, I see you’ve done away. For ne’er can see myself into a swoon: and

all know long cupped in lilies of life’s flower, glistering is dead! It seem’d much fall short pause, said, My name is Love.

I would I descry such? In that deep wound in their change and paddling with tears, the dim and where the unpastur’d dragon-

fly came back ever. A fourth time and so the heavy sky over London stallion-hoofed falls on the centurion

saith, go, and he bore a purple bunch, milk from thee, fell and sweet, so fair, is that spring. Excepting on her own

reflection what brought the truth and fevers burn and its might, that wear the flowers and suffering barge, least ioy, by nature teachest

how tender you had sounded, your living hotness, some kind to folly grows romantic, I must seem doubly mindful

of dust, like to a dew, fell down on my penny-fee, an’ few there came into Deed mine. That injured Queen of Song.

The feathers fair, her head of dreams! Thought, not a whispering. The fierce men on this day through the dreary grave! In thin array

after-following deliberately fickle, will have power of pathos, and earth and then I’m with flower blown,

how tall it seems from a poison— oh! Painted hast thou art Being and Breath and what nymph we view, knowledge of pearls. So

easily the passenger e’er pukes in, turns up more desperate counterfeit: so should oppose the prize, did drop a

flowers of flowers that somewhat for our very many times sleep—their Loss to life eternal. As a decrepit

father is mute in her heart I am to be cured: but true image of Absál set it awhile! Of one nymphs should

confirm, or shake, or made baits for fish, and the sheath who was thrown even boast a tree breath? About thee: the gate so splendour

sprung; and miles on the lengths of greater price of a fool the shore, there is not in the cignet’s down, of lying

over Fortune has play’d you hear, Eadwacer? And from the Beauty joins with a dainty blushing smil’d! Is snowing

deliberation I may give the swarms they were gone, save that same Babel, or bell at closing mine? But never that soft

sky smiles take on before or your name. Odd, tis true, a little twist of her seven, where our shelter in the world may

end to completely crown’d, the noble dreamed of the things she knew a check’d woman thus? Forget the woodmen hear. By the

solitude, as they would faine would have consolation make, that they are, but I grow jealous for they are, know backwards

the garbage. But I know you like a sign of the spring I did behold, that then? Nothing issues from sin; but whether

on Ida’s shadow lend. And such primal naked breast, can make you. Could I descry such? The rest, as I Undying

Locke, as Sappho fragrant too, when Adonais: wan they, the acting lethargy, the As Venus rose with thee.

And I’ll pluck them not been a thing to leave to the ways of sun had settled gravity,—against that divine, more pleasure, unto the shadow-like to a man who cherish’d, even a Dandy’s dandiest charm is she’s for me, they were things

come interrupted by a humming sound, and many maiden cherish no less could supposed than my o’er-arching twa laugh’d, and half of that will let the lash to Baba: but her looking crew, which mishap this cheeks unprofan’d by one in

the day, by and by, ’ repletion rather strength of laws, since all, or my pretty lambs we pull; fair-lined slippers forth, had faced Napoleon’s foes until that courts us, wanting higher, the white told me by the rider as carefully as

the very view which puzzled by the merry worm that is done let’s forget thee, while the very well: what need to sleep. While Baba bow’d obeisance and pain,—for those limbs, so late her deep purple robe, and I saw you that a poniard pierce

than break your memory, and painters gems at will help the stir of the tower of Babel might see perch’d on the Sea- shore sat a Raven, blind, and him a year when ecstasy the hand, nor all the pock, the point within the compliment,

curling our branchingly o’er-press’d you hold the great shame. Of an immortal through which, though not much; for I have said bitter, bitter tastes shall dance to unsay. Whether the grief of life’s lower turn the gutter yet to love I can say flash’d

over my heart made the yellow pin on your smiled on me which all that jealous for thee: while scars of his tongues, the world’s wilderness holds the gentle child do deeds of Night; or for the Pope. Than it takes delight. As a hostess detests

unexpected age, and in mad trance, the sun took delight: joys in another course. With red wine- spilith that dark mantle thrown as t were easier done that soul with you. Had held in holy wedlock to delay the queen-priest thy limits.

And when sometime did not run away for whose numbers, who dares be well. Languid strings of this odd warp in time, dying

in sense—thy adverse party is the cold nightly gulls him well; and Juan onward, when a war broke in at last they are,

know by heart above thee, perforce am thine own brain’s opprest one to wake! Her apron gave, as all that, fair and new

delight, it seems to be Nature’s naked is your souls amazeth. My sense of diplomatic rest, The herded wolves,

which way free, oh, how that I know, dies. One unbecoming on of grateful Evening them as you’d have felt humble I.

Thy spirit is that bonie Mary. When I read a recipe he’d wrong and clear. The grave with a frown before-’—Hold! From

suddenly the cherub to persuade, looked upon a sleeping heap of pain. And when Old Love returns with such murderous

shame alike. My hat and looking for a day, with idle paine. The love well know in part; but she’s bonie Mary, theniel

Menzies’ bonie laddie’s young beneath with their hooks, fit baits for eyes upon the spirit shall notions of threading it.

You turn all the lifeless sphere all it ceased to wow me and what there is one with the better looking-glass my red life like you. She lies, yclep’d despatches, with her face is at

moment, and leaps to thy sweet thief which thou miss any life in the United States, that it is, thou love speech is homely, too; but sometimes twould much fall still remits the blood was

quench’d in anywise: one or the triumph—let the Mortal go. For much more, that necklace use; and hale, with his javelin wounded the vital air; death to do—by that stampt current

only; what need the ending Foot am I; whatever think I should rejoice in multitudinous chatter, and sixty-seven words to spangled mute, like tears must hammer

on to the world like a pale before he’d written into the silence mould, art so unkind to me the third rail that same soul’s true face, ere we are drift of proofs have their turn away

are deaf and vice. Help me to slacken sail, and she’ll adore you—Then their injuries: yet do not young Dawn, by man and wholly dumb; I will no more, from kindling brain inhearse,

making eyes and outer worlds, until the flesh obey—the spirit’s well, but like her humour most, when in fashion, that which buys your true no-meaning, what they are fled; now, well-bred.

For we know what Art meant. And what the tast, each touch of the gate. Pace; but never, reach’d one gen’rous God, who can paint it.

Their duty was—for the unfit contrary effectually with Zuhrah wrought, be thine own sorrow; from his Breast, this

spirit of the sort as lovers fall short glimpse of hell: Oh, weep for Adonais, like a mourning weeds, but her grief, as

if to feed where yet withheld him with it. Which wrapt the same soul’s distracting lethargy, the pleasures too refin’d to

Juan with due severity, is that well which the bought, blood- red as someone setting now. Woes, the young down the Way of

Nothing. Your voice as tuneful as today to say, they have drawn by you could plunge in your name. A shadow of our night,

dearest of Eternities! When ecstasy of course and straight ice I know a sweet myrtle let thy love can dawn in

war painters gems at will, see withering flower was to cut only thought as what little, and whom his Breast, and life

no longer it blossom’d the child ephemeral: but that he lies as a Czar; and homeward show they first greatness. To

my ear. Gave alms at Eastern watch- tower, and silence. By this odd warp in time they will kill him a cheat; for those who

made the same way they one than gratified except for their songs, is all this gauze? But sometimes are blue, and are puppets,

Man in his hard a shot—’t was eight o’clock light fair, can make their black dots on its patterning long your nose where yet

with truth is the far-off sail is blotted by authority to tell the glass. A woman who asked, after frequent

showers, much like a passion and screaming with a fair desires and all confus’d, I there kept in awe: he said the

dew, sweet was under guard, and we dead? Scarce defence save breed, the web of being so backwards the grave among the globe

of wealth, sae lang as I’ll enjoy it; i’ll come and clear. They look’d so little less fortitude, we know what atones?

To love? She might hands. And calling— come, poor lad! Whilst we speaks her mighty fuss just as your back. Because no faces throng!

I see her profusion in her blue eyes of all. And Pleasure take; but you, with gossip, scandal, and threw herself; her

seventy-four; Sophia’s cupola with great god Pan, from friendly star? All ragamuffins differing Accuser also

to approach, and hanging cymbal. The game you plann’d Whence a tower in the eyes, to have not teeth to rend, and I,

once hand reaches them. Of matter to be put up for the purest breath, and makes his God, or King: alas! Of my face,

that the extreme hope, nor the sort as is the sun delight before he came not worthy Lust; nor Valiant, who succeed?

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #168 texts #ballad sequence

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theviruseye · 1 year ago

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Exercises in Ekphrasis

Ryan Carpenter

October 18, 2023

ECL 157

Exercises in Ekphrasis Extra Credit

DS Waldman is a recipient of the Poetry Society of America’s Lucille Medwick Memorial, and his work is supported at San Diego State where he was a Marsh-Rebello Scholar, and attended Stanford University where he is a Wallace Stegner Fellow. The first piece of art that is shown is a square image with many different shades of brown and white that mix in together with many shapes to create a look of an instrument or many different instruments that are wooden. The shapes are abstract and the object I most signify with is in the bottom left of the picture it sort of looks like a Violin. I connect with the Violin that I see because that is the position my grandma played growing up and played until only a couple of years ago when she stopped playing the beautiful instrument. I also connect with this because my dad was taught by his mom and both my siblings played instruments growing up, so it makes me think of my family and how much I miss seeing them every day. The next thing I see in the image is an animal like a cat or a wolf made up of all the different shapes in the middle. This reminds me of my cat back at home that I haven’t seen since leaving for college in August. The face of the animal I see is in the top third section of the picture and the body is kind of hidden behind all the other shapes and objects in the art. The next piece of art we look at is from Mark Rothko, a simple yet powerful piece of art. The image is filled with yellow and a box of orange in the bottom half of the image. This makes me think of my favorite place in the world, Lake Chelan where it is sunny all year long no matter the weather. It can be burning hot or freezing cold and the sun will always shine in eastern Washington. This image relates because even though I don’t see the sun I know it is there and it is always shining somewhere even if it’s not where I am. D.S. Waldman also discusses his beautiful poem titled “Pastory” and talks about the horrific accident that he was involved in 20 years ago when he said he was 11 years old. He says that the accident resulted in the loss of function and feeling in his right hand and reflects how that experience one of severance and loss, has influenced his aesthetic views. He states how he is not right-handed, yet he would not consider himself left-handed either. The author also displays the work of art titled Mean Free Path by Ben Lerner which showcases love and the difficult possibilities that come with writing love poems. Waldman also reads us poems such as “A Love Poem” and “What the Water Gave Me”. The poem is in inspiration by Frida Kahlo and displays life and death, happiness and sadness, comfort and pain being in the present, and living life to the fullest.

To connect the presentation by D.S. Waldman to the comics and stories we have learned about in class I will be discussing Milo Imagines the World by Matt De La Pena illustrated by Christian Robinson. In the lecture by Waldman, he discusses how important it is to connect to pieces of art and be unique and original with your artwork and how you connect with certain pieces. I think this relates to Milo Imagines the World because Matt De La Pena wrote the story but Christian Robinson, I think has a real connection with his main character who is shown wearing a green beanie. In the image of Christian, he is also seen wearing a green beanie the same as Milo. I connect with the little things of this story including this because I believe small things are sometimes more important than the bigger things in life. As I was growing up, from a young age I was always seen walking around with a basketball in my hand because I was obsessed with basketball and that’s all I could think about. I relate this to Milo and his green beanie because I feel like it’s so important to Christian it almost seems as if he might have worn a green beanie growing up all the time. In addition, I really enjoyed the simple shapes and colors in this comic book Illustrated by Christian Robinson because it is easy to understand. The pictures and images are made for children to understand but it is refreshing as an adult to read an easy and understandable comic book directed towards children.

#submissionVIRUSeye #VIRUSeye

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jessica-problems · 1 year ago

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like, fuck, I wish the shape of my body mattered, but I don't want it to matter. because if it does matter, then what does that say about me now, but if it doesn't matter, then why am I doing this whole transgender thing?

Just, for me? because I want to? For my own happiness? Is that enough? That has to be enough, right?

And, like, I've never HAD boobs, maybe I'm just hyping myself up over nothing and they won't actually solve all my problems? But of course they're not gonna solve ALL my problems that would be ridiculous. But I still just... I can't even put words on it. I just. I'm supposed to have boobs. Or, I'm surprised I don't have boobs. Or... I;m jealous of people who have boobs. Or, like, It feels like bullshit that I didn't even get asked whether I wanted boobs. But, like, none of that even makes any sense. You know what I mean.

Like, surely it's better to learn to love the body I HAVE than to try and change it into something else that I've never actually experienced. But, like, I'm so committed to going to all this trouble to become something new and different. I know I want this. But, like, I don't WHY I want it. Like, am I running from who I am now? Am I running towards something? I swear to god I've deconstructed every gender role I can find in here and just about the only thing left is, like, I think I want to have boobs, and not be assumed to be dangerous by default? But, like, as a trans woman, I'll just be assumed dangerous in a whole different way maybe? Like, fuck, I'm just throwing away all this privilege I could have, or something. But cis dudes don't worry about that shit. If I was cis, this wouldn't even be on my mind. And I think I want to get better at emotions and relationships, but, like, that's not a gender thing, I don't think, except it kind of is because like, all the women I look up to seem to understand how to formulate emotions more complex than 'happy' or "sad" or whatever, and there sure seem to be a lot of men who don't have that figured out, but like, there's men out there who DO understand their own emotions, but I don't think I want to be one? But I don't know if maybe that's about the emotions or the gender or both? It's not like calling myself a girl will immediately give me a better understanding of emotions or some shit, but, like, it.... feels connected somehow? Maybe the cause and effect is backwards. Maybe "I'm a girl" is an emotion I have and paying attention to it is good practice for being aware of other emotions. I don't know. Maybe if I understood my own emotions already this wouldn't be such a fucking problem! I don't want to let myself doubt myself, because that way leads to cross examining my every thought until I get into, like, solipsism and infinite recursion and is no use to anyone, but, like, I so wish I had something external and undeniable to point to and say "this is why I'm transgender. this is how I know, look at this thing, you can see it's proof that I'm a women."

But, like, doubting myself is how I got here. I didn't start out knowing I was trans. I had to say "wait a minute something's not right"

Like, am I just some kind of pervert obsessing over boobs or over femininity or over trans women or something? I don't *think* so. I don't feel like a pervert. But, like, fuck I don't even have any signposts. Feels like I'm forging my own trail and I have no idea if I'm going in the right direction. Cis people don't seem to worry about their anatomy this much. Maybe it's like someone said about, like, shoes that don't fit. You just don't notice them when they fit fine.

but, like a rock in your shoe is one thing. You can take a rock out of your shoe. gender is big and complex and abstract and, like, I think maybe I'm worrying about anatomy right now because if I so much as *look* at any of the socially constructed elements of gender I will explode. "growing a pair of boobs" is a concrete, measurable goal. fucking, like, "feminine mannerisms" or "passing" or whatever is just, like, so many layers of complexity wrapped in misinformation wrapped in a billion complex social expectations, and half of them are bullshit, and the other half are meaningless, and, like I don't want to larp someone else's life or their expectations about how other people should live. I want to live my own life. Except I've never done that before. just changing my name and taking hormones won't suddenly make me a more outgoing person, will it? I'll still be a weird asocial loser who posts on the internet rather than fucking engaging with my life.

But maybe, once I get the rock out of my shoe, that will all come naturally? I hope? I hope so much that it hurts.

#aj oc #gender #trans #dysphoria

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devisnobody · 2 years ago

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How deep does it really go, not many beings know.

This hole constantly spiraling deeper into darkness, the width getting more narrow as time goes on. Until a point is reached, as if the hole was tapered off, there being only a speck of light shining through. By this time you've been falling so long, so deep that you have fallen asleep, losing majority of your essence in the process. Now there is only a portion of you remaining, the rest of your essence acting as a bungie cable to keep you connected to the "main idea" which is yourself. You awaken in a new world unaware of that which you came from. You hear a voice from within "I welcome thee to the world of temptation and reflections", says the voice, so strong and resounding that the world around you seems to shake. You stagger about in a vessel that you seemed to have "fell inside" when you came from the world above, not having full control over it as though your driving for the first time. "Tis only a RENTal ye musnt get to attached to it" yells the mysterious voice, "For if thou are to get attached to it thy will surely forget that from which ye came".

Having no idea what this means you continue on, walking down a seemingly endless hallway full of doors leading to different paths, some abstract, full of shapes, colors and harmonic tones, some empty full of darkness, but one stands out above all, seeming more vivid in that it has laws, standards, and concepts that seem to peak your interest. You enter this door and it gets dark very dark, you forget everything and awaken to bright lights and frantic noises, " what is this, where am I....who.... am I" You ask yourself as you peer around at the eerie atmosphere that seems to distort your perception of yourself as well. You see men conversing with one another above you. You scream out, "someone help me, I can't remember anything" then you realize your words don't correlate with your thoughts. Your now confused, angry, uncomfortable. The men hear your cries for help, yet they respond not to you but to a man and a women.

They are your parents, they glance over at you gleefully, smiling and waving. You being so distraught have no way of expressing yourself so you are left only with the option of crying.... screaming. The pain is deep, a feeling of uneasiness envelopes you as though you were a prisoner in your own body. You have a strong feeling within as the voice returns "Tis only an illusion thou needn't worry, for ye are still connected, but nary a day should thyne get attached, for Lo and behold if ye take no heed to this message ye shall surely parish as is the fate of all that belong to the world of mirrors". With that you were calmed, and you doze off to sleep, upon awakening you realize that you never left your "real" world. You were merely stuck, peering deep into the hole finding yourself emersed in the light at the bottom which locked you in a TRANCE like state. That's all, it was simply a dream, nothing more nothing less.... Just.... A.... Dream

#rabbit hole #drama #dream #alice in wonderland #wonderland #illusion #reality #portals

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twistedmusings · 4 years ago

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Vil Schoenheit: After RSA’S Performance

The first time he had been left speechless was because of you.

You who always knew what to say, you who always had an answer to the problem at hand.

Where were you?

A/N: What is formatting. I don’t even know.

But listen though. When did Vil get hot? I mean he has always been hot but is it now because he is sad boy? A rude boy turned sad boy? Is that why I am attracted to him now and was compelled to write this?

I don’t know but I’m in love so I’m going to run with it.

This is how Vil would react if MC looked like they were enjoying RSA’s performance.

Part 2, here!

What Vil felt couldn’t really be put into words.

His grades would say that he was one of the highest ranking students in the Language Arts for Night Raven College. Not just in regular human speech but also in fairy-dialect, animal dialect and any sort of dialect that Professor Trein would demand. Vil also excelled in prose, poetry and abstract writing.

Being left speechless was not something that was supposed to happen, not twice in a row.

The tightening of his throat would speak otherwise, as well as the sudden feeling of vertigo.

Vil could barely hear Kalim through the jovial sound of Neige’s voice, the one thing that had kept him awake for these past few weeks--no these past few years. When was the last time that he had felt so helpless? Was it when he had first met him? Neige, with his bright smile and lovable personality that made people overlook his mistakes, his very obvious mistakes. The way he wouldn’t go when it was his cue, or how Neige would forget almost every other line only to finally have the script memorized by the time it was opening night.

A children’s song.

“What even is this song! The chorus just won’t leave my head!”

He wasn’t even ready during dress rehearsal, Neige would wait until fucking opening night.

Was it dramatic to say that the whole event had haunted him? As well as the domino effect of undeserved fame that Neige had gotten afterwards?

No, to Vil, being overshadowed by this person despite all the effort that he put into each and everyone of his performances was something akin to being shot by a gun.

Over and over and over.

He had been beaten by a children’s song.

Every single commercial, every music video, every promotion and every product placement that Neige did was like a dagger carving him up from the inside out.

So when the VDC presented itself, he jumped at the chance to not just shape himself into the perfect being to defeat Neige, but to shape others to show that not only could he surpass himself but he could help others break through their own ‘ugly’ exteriors to discover their own personal beauty. And by all means he had done it, he had taken five rough and ugly rocks and turned them into polished jewels.

Polished jewels that framed the diamond he had worked so hard to turn himself into.

His grip on the audience seat loosens when something flashes through his mind.

The practices had been rather arduous, not only having to make sure that he was flawless but trying to deal with Epel’s stupid gender based ideas, Ace and Deuce’s lack of grace and even Kalim’s really really terrible singing voice. Yet something had made it even a little bit worth it.

Someone, he needed to correct himself, someone had made it a bit worth it.

The sixth potato that he had hoped to start shaping after this whole thing was over.

What could he say about you? At first glance you were truly nothing special. An uneventful, magicless person from an equally uneventful place that hadn’t even been accepted into this school but was instead made a student because of the monster next to you. You weren’t even a student, more like a glorified problem solver for the Headmaster. Ideally, Vil should have also hated your guts since you were essentially getting the same education that he had been getting when he was a first year but without any effort but there was something different about you that he had not expected.

I think you’re probably the fairest out of everyone in the school.

A small glimmer of something beautiful.

But in the end your opinion is the one that will matter to you.

You were honest. That is something that Rook had mentioned about you once he did his recon of the new manager for the VDC team. How the Ramshackle prefect really didn’t have anything to offer but that the quality that stood out the most to the hunter was your refreshing honesty.

He had modeled for crowds of adoring fans and yet he found himself pulling out his pocket mirror and fixing non-existent imperfections before talking to you. Yet even when he tried to make himself look presentable to you, you always seemed to catch him when all of his walls were down.

“You should have seen the information that I got from Riddle, Leona, and Azul. They have really gotten a reputation behind them, the Ramshackle prefect. I wonder what will happen if we keep them close~”

Vil wouldn’t admit it to anyone but there had been a brief moment that his heart skipped a beat when the news about how the VDC team would be rooming in Ramshackle. He figured it had skipped out of beat due to the horrific news that he would have to room in a dorm that had not been used for who knows how long but when he had come inside and been greeted by your smile, it was almost surreal how he had come to terms with this feeling of nervousness.

The night before the VDC had found Vil in the Ramshackle lounge, a cup of tea in his hand as he watched a video of that day’s performance. There were still minor imperfections here and there but those would be easily covered up by his own singing and movements. Epel had also improved exponentially which highly increased the probability of a successful performance and with Jami’s hypnotizing movements and Rook’s aura there was no doubt that he had this competition under his heel.

But nerves like these didn’t leave overnight.

A creak on the stairs brought him back to the present, taking a sip of his tea as he continued to look at the video.

“If you’re here to ask me about why I am awake at this hour, Rook, I would like to remind you that you insisted we review the performance in the morning which already did nothing to calm my nerves--”

"Vil-senpai?"

His head snapped up to look at you , the light of the moon masking him in shadows while illuminating you as you made your way down the staircase. He clicked his tongue and turned off his phone.

"Was I interrupting something?"

Vil shook his head, “Last minute detail check. Everything has to be perfect by tomorrow.”

You nod and walk towards him, standing next to the couch before pointing to it. Vil looked at you before looking at the seat next to him. What were you--oh. He nodded and you sat down on the other side of the love seat, both of you farther apart that he would have liked.

“Does the manager have anything they want to say to me?”

“It just gets me thinking. You have been doing this performance perfectly in my eyes. Over and over again that it makes me wonder just what you think is lacking.”

You bring your feet up to the seat, hugging your knees together as you look down at the floor, “Maybe your definition of perfect and my definition of perfect are so different.”

The Pomefiore dorm leader rolls his eyes, “Did your Heartslabyul friends put you up to this?”

“Ace and Deuce? Great Sevens no. If they did I would have rightfully ignored them and gone to bed. I’m just your manager, I’m not here to negotiate.”

“Just a manager.” Vil frowns and looks at you, “You understand that you are currently housing the Vil Schoenheit as well as six other people who happen to be under my temporary tutelage. If you and your dorm weren’t around I would have had to keep those two Heartslabyul potatoes in the Pomefiore dorm and I don’t think I could stand letting them sleep in one of our beds. Our dorm has standards, luckily yours is the most neutral place I can stand being around those two without losing sleep.”

He blinks at the snort you let out, staring as you wave your hands and apologize while trying to prevent another one from surfacing.

“That is the only straightforward compliment my dorm has received. Neutral.” you laugh again before wiping a fake tear from your eyes, “Am I allowed to take it as a compliment?”

Vil is glad for the darkness, it hid the sudden flush in his cheeks.

“Take it as you will.”

You nod and stand up, stretching and letting out a satisfied sigh when your back made a small cracking noise that had Vil clutching at his cup. Anybody else and he would have walked out of whatever conversation he was having, so why did he find that tolerable with you?

“Then let me pay it back.” you hold out your hand and for a brief moment Vil wants to take it. Clearly that was an invitation for something and it alarmed him that he didn’t mind the mystery behind it. Yet your finger pointed at the cup, Vil looking down and seeing it was empty.

Oh.

He hands it to you, doing his best to make it so that your fingers would brush in the most accidental way possible.

“In my own opinion, as well as the opinion of others, I think you are the fairest out of everyone in the school.”

The air in Vil’s lungs gets caught in his throat.

“No joke. The way you carry yourself, the effort you put into everything you are a part of. Even the potato comments are almost...endearing? Potato plants produce rather pretty flowers, right? Maybe you are just trying to get the flowers inside of us to bloom as well?”

He is staring.

He is staring and not saying anything. You had left him without speech.

“But in the end your opinion will be the one that matters most to you. I just hope that it will always be positive.” you scratch the back of your head and yawn, “I’m going to grab a glass of water and head back to bed, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Your eyes are still meeting his as a small flush adorned your cheeks, probably embarrassed by what you had just said. Or he would like to think you would be embarrassed, if this was any regular love story he would stand up and grab your wrist and keep you from running away from him before cupping your face and leaning in--

“Good night, Vil-senpai.”

"Goodnight."

You who always knew what to say, you who always had an answer to the problem at hand.

Where were you?

His eyes start looking around for your figure, hands itching and brain running slower than it ever had before. Maybe you would make it better? No, you would make it better. You would go over to him and smile before saying that the competition hadn’t even started and just because that song seemed to be moving everyone under a stupid nostalgia spell, Vil’s hardwork would shine through. Neige hadn’t taken everything from him, not just yet.

Vil feels the weight on his shoulders lessen when he looks at you only for it to double when he sees your face.

You were smiling, humming along to the silly melody as your head bobbed up and down.

Even in practice your gaze remained fixed on them, yet with Neige you seemed to feel that infectious, annoying melody and enjoying it?

“What’s wrong? You look pale.”

Had he lost you as well?

“Vil...Vil?”

The first time he had been left speechless was because of you.

“...Nothing. Don’t worry.” he turns his back to Rook, “It’s not worth seeing their performance. I will be in the waiting room.”

Vil walks away, so many thoughts clouding his head as he replays the words you had said to him.

Who the hell cared about his opinion when yours was just as important?

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst #vil schoenheit #vil schoenheit x reader #pomefiore #vil x reader #twst mc #Im in love with Vil dont look at me #available books

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edda-grenade · 3 years ago

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Sleep.

Adaar and Solas attempt fadewalking for the first time.

#feral verse, 2000 words. on AO3.

They were lying on a hilltop in the forest, on a fur to keep the cold of fall at bay. Well, Adaar was lying down—Solas had sat up to give her a curious look.

“You wish to leave?”

“No! I mean, yes, kinda—maybe—I don’t know.” She groaned and covered her face with her hands.

“You seem very happy, here,” he said, in that slow, careful way he had.

“I am! I am. I don’t want to leave my family, or this place, or you—”

“Me?” His voice cracked, just a little. Adaar glanced at him from between her fingers.

“Yes, obviously. I know you like to pretend you’re some lone wolf apart from all living creatures or whatever, but you’re my friend, alright? You’re not getting out of that so easily.”

“I don’t—pretend…” He sighed, his skin staining with blush, the faint freckles even fainter. His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile, until he gave up and his mouth crooked. Adaar loved it when that happened. She was pretty good at making it happen, too.

“You do not wish to leave, but?”

Now she sighed and clamped her hand over her eyes again. It was easier in the dark, unwatched.

“The world is so big and so full of things I don’t know,” she said softly, “and I want to learn everything.”

“Adaar…”

She hadn’t figured out if she loved that yet—the way he said her name sometimes, how he looked at her. Like she was the sun coming over the horizon, or a thunderstorm in the distance, or the wind dancing through the fields so hard it sang. At least that’s what she imagined the expression would look like on her face—an expression that was meant for immense and somewhat unfathomable things, not for a single person.

“There is a way I could show those things to you. Not all of them, of course—but more than what is accessible to you right now.”

Adaar sat up so quickly her head spun a little.

“I’m listening.”

He explained, and her head continued to spin, although for different reasons. Lucid dreaming, delving into the Fade like into a cave, how the deeper you went the older the memories imprinted upon the Fade would be…

It sounded ludicrous. Like magic, if she had never heard of it before. It sounded amazing.

“Can we just do that?” she asked. “Right now?”

Solas gave her another weird look; his eyes wide and searching for a brief moment.

“I—yes. Come with me.”

They left the little barren hilltop that poked above the forest behind and instead descended into the small cave Solas had chosen as his resting place. She’d tried often to convince him to join her family at the settlement, but he’d steadfastly refused every time. It didn’t bother her as much anymore—the cave looked more and more like an actual home these days, with a fire pit and cooking tools, shelves he’d carved out of the rock to hold utensils using a spell she hadn’t quite figured out yet herself, and a warm, dry place to sleep.

Solas had a ball of light bobbing in the air above his shoulder, and gazed down at the bedstead. It was cozy: a pallet of hay covered in cowhide, with a blanket and fur to keep warm in winter. It was also not nearly big enough for both of them. At least not if they intended not to share breathing space.

“There’s a bigger bed at home, you know,” Adaar said. “Actual walls and a door, too.”

“I would prefer to try it here. I have set the requisite wards quite often, and I’m familiar with the peculiarities of the Fade in this place.”

She shrugged, glancing around at the runes and sigils he had marked into the walls of the cave. “Yeah, makes sense. I’m just saying, you can get familiar with the farm, too. There’s space for you, it’s not a problem.”

“I’m aware, since you keep reminding me so diligently.”

“It keeps being true.”

She smiled a little at how that statement made his ears dip and his head turn away so she wouldn’t see his face. He cleared his throat.

“I have never… attempted to teach this to anyone else.”

“Because you didn’t want to, or because there was no one you could teach it to?” She hesitated, thinking of his arguments with Lavellan's Keeper. “Or because no one wanted to learn it?”

He let out a low breath. “All of the above,” he replied quietly, “at one point or another.”

Adaar slapped her hands together to resist the urge to hug him, then clapped her palms briefly onto his shoulders because not touching him at all was even more frustrating than being shrugged off. “First time for everything. How do we start?”

Solas showed her how to set the wards—they’d talked about spellwork like it before, but mostly in abstract terms. It took a good while, because she kept stumbling over new questions, like how specific a ward could be, how permanent, how big a space it could cover… They were halfway into designing one that might be used to keep beetles out of the grain, until they managed to get back to the task at hand.

She settled on the bedstead with crossed legs while Solas puttered about by the fire pit and brewed a concoction he insisted wasn’t tea to help them fall asleep. Then she got up again and started pacing, as much as was possible, because her legs were too jittery to sit still. She was just glad most of the cave was high enough that she didn’t have to stoop—she halted, gazing at the stone close above her.

“Solas, did you shape the ceiling, too?”

“What do you mean?”

“The rock here has a different texture.” She reached up to touch it and closed her eyes, searching for that low echo of past magic—and found it. “And it’s been worked with magic.”

“…A little. It is not your fault you are so tall.”

A smile bit into her cheeks. “Aw, that’s sweet.”

“It was a practical consideration,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound like he was actually put out. “You insert yourself into others’ spaces inevitably, it was only a matter of time until you would find your way into this one.”

“That almost sounds like a criticism.”

“An observation. Foremost.” He handed a steaming cup of the not-tea to her, then sipped from his own. She breathed in the smell—chamomile, juniper, and something spicy she didn’t recognize—then exhaled a bit of frost across it to cool it down before taking a sip.

Solas was watching her when she looked up from the cup.

“Something wrong?”

“No, it is simply… nice, to see how certain magic has become easier for you.”

“The frost? Yeah, I barely have to think about it anymore.” She blew a puff of snow into his face to demonstrate. Solas startled, grimacing, and wiped the rapidly-melting crystals from his cheeks.

“Sorry,” Adaar said, very earnestly. “Couldn’t resist.”

He shook his head and grumbled something in Elvish, but he was smiling again. That small, helpless, trying-not-to smile. They finished their cups, put them aside, and regarded the bedstead again.

“I shall take the fur, next to the pallet,” said Solas.

“I thought the point was to fall asleep more easily? And to sleep more deeply?”

“Yes.”

“Then why make it harder on yourself? We just gotta… scrunch up a little, it’s gonna be fine.”

There was a long silence.

“I am not used to sleeping among other people,” Solas said finally, his tone even. He wasn’t used to other people—flesh-and-blood people, that was—in general, Adaar suspected, but she kept it to herself. Right now was probably a bad time to bring that one up.

“Alright, no spooning then,” she said instead and sat down and stretched out along one side of the bedding. Then she remembered she had to get rid of her shoes, untied them, and hucked them against an empty wall. Lying down, the scent of lavender became obvious amid the hay and fur; sprigs had been stuck to the corners to keep bugs away. She’d told him about that trick months ago.

It really was cozy; warm and inviting. She curled onto her side, drawing her feet up, and patted the mattress next to her. Slowly, Solas joined her, folding himself up so he took up even less space than usual. It was still a tight fit, especially since he tried to avoid any real contact beyond the brush of fabric.

“I will attempt to find you once we are dreaming,” he said. “With our current physical proximity it should be an easier task.”

“There’s really nothing else to it? We just fall asleep?”

“It is… difficult to put into words. Question your dreams, if you can. The key is to become aware—awareness begets agency, which in turn begets control.”

Adaar tugged the fur and blanket up to cover them. “Alright. Sleep well?” There was a flash of a smile on Solas’s face before he closed his eyes.

“I shall see you soon.”

It was not soon. Adaar’s mind refused to quiet, anticipation thrumming in her limbs. She kept shifting, unable to relax, and she worried she’d spend the entire night sleepless, when she finally woke up again to a dark, quiet cave.

She must have fallen asleep at some point, then? So was this the Fade? It didn’t feel different. She was sleepy and bleary-eyed just as she would be when waking up in the middle of the night, and a cursory examination of the cave with a bit of conjured light—a spell that behaved no differently than any previous time she’d used it—told her it looked exactly as it had when they had bedded down. Except…

Solas lay tucked against her front, his body warm, his breathing even. His temple rested against her collarbones and his folded legs leaned against her hips. He was curled up as he’d been before, but now it seemed less about making himself smaller, and more about fitting into the curve of her body.

Adaar stared into the darkness. That was… unexpected. Solas didn’t seek out physical contact. Sure, he usually melted into it for one or two seconds when it was offered before pulling away, but nothing like this.

Cautiously, she tried to brace herself on her elbow to get a better look, both at the cave and at him. She bit down on a sharp inhale when pins and needles erupted in the limb, breathing through it with care until the sensation passed. But even on a thorough second look, nothing changed. The cave was still the cave, nothing remotely immaterial about it, and Solas still slept soundly, curled up against her.

Part of her wanted to wake him up. Let him know it hadn’t worked, at least not yet, and try to figure out what might be changed, because merely the thought of consciously walking in the Fade was enough to make her heart beat faster.

But he looked so much younger in his sleep. His features softened and relaxed, like he might actually be at peace. Adaar wasn’t sure she had ever managed to catch him this unguarded. When they were together, it felt like he hardly stopped watching her.

She let out a small sigh and settled back down, gently wrapping one arm around his waist. Hopefully that wouldn’t upset him, if he woke up before her come morning. Right now at least, a soft, sleepy noise slipped from him, and he rolled even more thoroughly into her embrace.

#don't worry solas is gonna get slammed with the pining soon enough #feral verse #adaar #solas #saar gets her own tag #inquisitor x solas #soladaar #time for those tags to make a regular appearance in this verse :3c #art tag #fanart #fic tag #fic related #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da:i

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brooklynmuseum · 4 years ago

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Closing out National Poetry Month, our Spring Interns paired some of their favorite poems with works from our collection. We hope you enjoy!

— Jeffrey Alexander Lopez, Curatorial Intern, American Art & Arts of the Americas

Image: Suzuki Harunobu (Japanese, 1724-1770). Page From Haru no Nishiki, 1771. Color woodblock print on paper. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Peter P. Pessutti, 83.190.1

from Citizen: “Some years there exists a wanting to escape...” [Excerpt] By Claudia Rankine

I they he she we you turn only to discover the encounter

to be alien to this place.

Wait.

The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.

The opening, between you and you, occupied, zoned for an encounter,

given the histories of you and you—

And always, who is this you?

The start of you, each day, a presence already—

Hey you—

— Halle Smith, Digital Collections Intern Catherine Green (American, born 1952). [Untitled] (West Indian Day Parade), 1991. Chromogenic photograph, sheet. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the artist, 1991.58.2. © artist or artist's estate

Ode to Enchanted Light by Pablo Neruda

Under the trees light has dropped from the top of the sky, light like a green latticework of branches, shining on every leaf, drifting down like clean white sand.

A cicada sends its sawing song high into the empty air.

The world is a glass overflowing with water.

Consuelo Kanaga’s black and white photograph captures a dazzling, yet fleeting moment from everyday life. Three textured glasses cast shadows whose patterns are almost kaleidoscopic in effect. We can imagine Kanaga passing by her kitchen table, as she is brought to a halt to take a closer look at, and ultimately to photograph, the simple beauty generated by the play of light and everyday objects. The close-up scale of this image emulates the singularizing framing techniques deployed by Surrealist photographers, who also took parts of everyday life and blew them up in the photographic frame, thereby encouraging their viewers to look at life around us from a different angle. It is a way of saying: Here, take a closer look. Viewing the world with wonder, along with the joy that this act brings, are encapsulated in Pablo Neruda’s poem Ode to Enchanted Light. The speaker observes the way light passes through trees and creates enchanting patterns. He not only observes, but feels the beauty in the simple details of life, from the way light falls from the sky, to the sheen of leaves, to the buzzing of cicadas. Approaching life through such a hopeful lens evokes a glass-half-full perspective. In fact, the speaker is so hopeful that he believes “The world is/a glass overflowing/with water.” I think Kanaga would have felt the same way.

— Kirk Testa, Curatorial Intern, Photography Consuelo Kanaga (American, 1894-1978). [Untitled] (Glasses and Reflections). Gelatin silver photograph. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Wallace B. Putnam from the Estate of Consuelo Kanaga, 82.65.25

Easter Wings By George Herbert

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,

Though foolishly he lost the same,

Decaying more and more,

Till he became

Most poore:

With thee

O let me rise

As larks, harmoniously,

And sing this day thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne

And still with sicknesses and shame.

Thou didst so punish sinne,

That I became

Most thinne.

With thee

Let me combine,

And feel thy victorie:

For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

Easter Wings by George Herbet and Martin Bach’s flower vase from the Brooklyn Museum’s Decorative Arts collection reveal the interrelationship between form and function. In Easter Wings, Herbert strategically varies the line length to create an image that enhances the meaning of the poem; when you turn the poem on its side, it resembles the wings of a bird, of which are symbolic of the atonement of Jesus Christ. In doing so, the author is not only telling us his message, but he is showing it visually as well. Similarly, the vase takes the visual form of its function. Its floral design amplifies the meaning of the object, as the vase is meant to hold flowers. In both instances, we see how aesthetic properties of a work echo the meaning and function of the work itself.

— Amy Zavecz Martin Bach (American, 1862-1921). Vase, ca. 1905. Opalescent glass. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Mrs. Alfred Zoebisch, 59.143.16. Creative Commons-BY

I am the Earth (Watashi wa chikyu) [Excerpt] by Kiyoko Nagase, Translated by Takako Lento

I am warm, moist soil I am a single supple stalk I draw my life all the way up into corollas of wild berries on the roadside

I am amazed at a breast of water welling to flow into the inlet of a muddy rice paddy I am amazed at myself being hot steam blowing fire and sulfur up from the bottom of the great ocean, deep indigo. I am amazed at the crimson blood flow covering the earth’s surface in human shape; I am amazed that it swells as the tides ebb and flow, and gushes out monthly under distant invisible gravity … I am the earth. I live there, and I am the very same earth.

In the four billionth year I have come to know the eternal cold moon, my other self, my hetero being, then, for the first time, I am amazed that I am warm mud.

The vivid imagery conjured up by Kiyoko Nagase’s poem is beautifully visualized by Emmi Whitehorse’s painting. The emphasis on deep Earth tones and abstract corporeality in both the poem and the painting really creates an intense metaphysical link between the environment and the self.

— Amanda Raquel Dorval, Archives Intern Emmi Whitehorse (Navajo, born 1957). Fire Weed, 1998. Chalk, graphite, pastel and oil on paper mounted on canvas. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Hinrich Peiper and Dorothee Peiper-Riegraf in honor of Emmi Whitehorse, 2006.49. © artist or artist's estate

Seventh Circle of Earth by Ocean Vuong

On April 27, 2011, a gay couple, Michael Humphrey and Clayton Capshaw, was murdered by immolation in their home in Dallas, Texas.

Dallas Voice

________________________________________________________

As if my finger, / tracing your collarbone / behind closed doors, / was enough / to erase myself. To forget / we built this house knowing / it won’t last. How / does anyone stop / regret / without cutting / off his hands? / Another torch

streams through / the kitchen window, / another errant dove. / It’s funny. I always knew / I’d be warmest beside / my man. / But don’t laugh. Understand me / when I say I burn best / when crowned / with your scent: that earth-sweat / & Old Spice I seek out each night / the days

refuse me. / Our faces blackening / in the photographs along the wall. / Don’t laugh. Just tell me the story / again, / of the sparrows who flew from falling Rome, / their blazed wings. / How ruin nested inside each thimbled throat / & made it sing

until the notes threaded to this / smoke rising / from your nostrils. Speak— / until your voice is nothing / but the crackle / of charred

bones. But don’t laugh / when these walls collapse / & only sparks / not sparrows / fly out. / When they come / to sift through these cinders—& pluck my tongue, / this fisted rose, / charcoaled & choked / from your gone

mouth. / Each black petal / blasted / with what’s left / of our laughter. / Laughter ashed / to air / to honey to baby / darling, / look. Look how happy we are / to be no one / & still

American.

Ocean Vuong’s “Seventh Circle of Earth” has persisted as one of the great, affective moments of poetry in my life since I first heard Pádraig Ó Toama’s gorgeous reading and discussion of it on his podcast, Poetry Unbound. I decided to pair Vuong’s poem with Mary Coble’s Untitled 2 (from Note To Self) because both works are urgently immersive into the violence and experience of LGBTQ people in the U.S., and for how each work uses text and physicality to address presence, pain, and erasure. Vuong’s poem is actually footnoted to a quote from a news article about a gay couple murdered in Texas. The page is thus blank, absent of text. The reader has to sink below the main stage, the accepted space of word and story, to find the voices of this couple and the depth of their story’s tenderness, eroticism, and utter devastation. Coble’s piece foils the structure and effect of Seventh Circle of Earth by taking what was subverted by Vuong—text and the narrative of violence—wholly to the surface. Her photograph captures her own legs tattooed without ink with the names of LGBTQ individuals victimized by hate crimes. I cannot help but think of Franz Kafka’s short story “In the Penal Colony,” in which prisoners’ “sentences'' are inscribed by the needle of a “punishment apparatus” directly onto their bodies. I was struck by how the curator’s note for this photograph describes Coble’s artistic endeavor here as “harrowing.” The needle in Kafka’s short story is indeed called “The Harrow”. The noun harrow is an agricultural tool that combs plowed soil to break up clumps of earth and uproot weeds and clear imperfections. The verb to harrow means to plague, and in the story’s original German the verb for “harrow”, eggen, is also translated as “to torment”. Kafka and Coble conflate these definitions of “the harrow” in their respective works: they use a needled device, like the true noun definition, as an instrument of torment because of someone else’s idea of punishment and justice. Here, violence is brought to the surface, intimate in as much as we are brought right up to the artist’s skin and into the presence of her and her community’s pain. Together, one can see how each creator physicalizes their respective artistic space to tell the stories of LGBTQ people, of what is tender and harrowing, below the surface and written into the skin.

— Talia Abrahams, Provenance Intern, IHCPP Mary Coble (American, born 1978). Untitled 2 (from Note to Self), 2005. Inkjet print. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the artist, 2008.10. © artist or artist's estate

To my daughter Kakuya by Assata Shakur

I have shabby dreams for you of some vague freedom I have never known. Baby I don't want you hungry or thirsty or out in the cold. and I don't want the frost to kill your fruit before it ripens. I can see a sunny place Life exploding green. I can see your bright, bronze skin at ease with all the flowers and the centipedes. I can hear laughter, not grown from ridicule And words not prompted by ego or greed or jealousy. I see a world where hatred has been replaced by love. and ME replaced by WE And I can see a world replaced where you, building and exploring, strong and fulfilled, will understand. And go beyond my little shabby dreams.

This poem is featured in Assata Shakur’s memoir, Assata: An Autobiography. It details her hope for a better world that her daughter can grow up in. This poem is positioned in the book when Shakur is facing increasing prosecution as a result of her activism and affiliations with the Black Panther Party and Black Liberation army. Being written more than 30 years after this picture was taken, the poem summons me to think about the trauma that many Black women face and how much of that trauma gets passed down to their children. The black and white photo of a mother and daughter provides a nice visual to the poem. “The image of a Black mother and child sitting on their luggage reflects the little-discussed history of segregated transportation in the northern United States. Through the 1940s, Penn Station officials assigned Black travelers seats in Jim Crow cars on southbound trains” (Brooklyn Museum). The photograph of train passengers waiting outside of Manhattan’s Pennsylvania Station especially echoes the verse “I don’t want you hungry or thirsty or out in the cold.” The overall optimistic tone of Shakur’s poem alters our relationship to the image as we imagine the mother pictured above hoping for the exact same things

— Zaria W, Teen Programs intern Ruth Orkin (American, 1921-1985). Mother and Daughter at Penn Station, NYC, 1948. Gelatin silver photograph, sheet: 13 15/16 × 11 in. (35.4 × 27.9 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Mary Engel, 2011.22.3. © artist or artist's estate

Crunch. By Kailyn Gibson

I retch as a mass of sinew lies between my lips. The sensation is unbearable. Fortunately, the jar of flies has gone missing again.

Slowly, surely, and yet never sure at all, the quiet of buzzing rings through the in-between.

It is a symphony wrought from blood and bone.

Saliva drips from bleeding, hungry gums, And the crunch of glass echoes the grinding of molars.

If I proffered a sanguine smile, would masticated shards look like teeth? Would they gleam just as prettily?

The flies ring, and the rot calls.

— Kailyn Gibson Edgar Degas (French, 1834-1917). Portrait of a Man (Portrait d'homme), ca. 1866. Oil on canvas. Brooklyn Museum, Museum Collection Fund, 21.112

Excerpt from Autobiography of Red A novel in verse by Anne Carson

7. If Helen’s reasons arose out of some remark Stesichoros made either it was a strong remark about Helen’s sexual misconduct (not to say its unsavory aftermath the Fall of Troy) or it was not.

8. If it was a strong remark about Helen’s sexual misconduct (not to say its unsavory aftermath the Fall of Troy) either this remark was a lie or it was not.

9. If it was not a lie either we are now in reverse and by continuing to reason in this way we are likely to arrive back at the beginning of the question of the blinding of Stesichoros or we are not.

10. If we are now in reverse and by continuing to reason in this way are likely to arrive back at the beginning of the question of the blinding of Stesichoros either we will go along without incident or we will meet Stesichoros on our way back.

11. If we meet Stesichoros on our way back either we will keep quiet or we will look him in the eye and ask him what he thinks of Helen.

12. If we look Stesichoros in the eye and ask him what he thinks of Helen either he will tell the truth or he will lie.

13. If Stesichoros lies either we will know at once that he is lying or we will be fooled because now that we are in reverse the whole landscape looks inside out.

This excerpt comes from Appendix C of Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red, a novel in verse. A translator and classicist herself, Carson mixes fact with fiction in her unconventional retelling of the myth of Geryon and Hercules, beginning with a roundabout introduction to the poet Stesichoros. Autobiography presents a captivating example of recent Queer projects that take up Classical material as their basis. A fascination with the Classical past has pervaded our modern conception of sexual identity politics, down to the very etymology of the word “lesbian.” In this fascination, I see the same desire to capture Classical imagery as cultural heritage which has also pervaded American museums, albeit with significantly different aims. The fresco pictured above comes to mind, which passed through many collectors and was even purchased by the museum before anyone pegged it as a modern piece—not an original Roman fresco. John D. Cooney, a 20th century curator of our Egyptian, Classical, and Ancient Near Eastern Art collection, wrote that “the unclad and somewhat winsome charms of the lady [probably] diverted objective glances.” Both in the case of the fresco and Carson’s novel, the “unclad and somewhat winsome charms” of the Classical past shape and reshape our understanding of history.

— Kira Houston, Curatorial Intern, Egyptian, Classical, and Ancient Near Eastern Art Modern, in the style of the Roman Period. Part of a Fresco, early 19th century C.E. Clay, paint. Brooklyn Museum, Ella C. Woodward Memorial Fund, 11.30.

Late Fragment by Raymond Carver From A New Path to the Waterfall, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1989.

And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

— Shori Diedrick Brackens (American, born 1989). when no softness came, 2019. Cotton and acrylic yarn. Brooklyn Museum, Purchased with funds given by The LIFEWTR Fund at Frieze New York 2019, 2019.12. © artist or artist's estate

Jaguar By Francisco X. Alarcón

some say dicen que ahora I'm now almost estoy casi extinto extinct in this park por este parque but the people pero la gente who say this que dice esto don't know no sabe that by smelling que al oler the orchids las orquídeas in the trees en los árboles they're sensing están percibiendo the fragrance la fragancia of my chops de mis fauces that by hearing que al oír the rumblingc el retumbo of the waterfalls de los saltos

they're listening están escuchando to my ancestors' el gran rugido great roar de mis ancestros

that by observing que al observar the constellations las constelanciones of the night sky del firmamento

they're gazing están mirando at the star spots las motas de estrellas on my fur marcadas en mi piel that I am and que yo soy always will be y siempre seré the wild el indomable

untamed espíritu silvestre living spirit vivo de esta of this jungle jungla

While the author of the poem speaks about animals, their words can also speak on behalf of the erasure of indigenous peoples in South America. Much like the jaguar, indigenous traditions and culture are very important to life in South America. Despite their marginalization, Indigenous peoples throughout the Andes used coca leaves to help with the altitude. The use and cultivation of coca are criminalized throughout most of South America despite it being essential to indigenous cultures. This vessel was used to contain lime which would activate the coca leaves. Much like the jaguar, indigenous traditions are also faced with endangerment despite being woven into the fabric that is Latin America. Through the opposite man and woman figures, the vessel shows the duality that is important to the Quimbaya people which is still relevant to Colombians today.

Aunque el autor del poema habla sobre los animales, sus palabras también comunican el sentimiento común de la supresión de los indígenas en Suram��rica. Con la mención del jaguar, se puede entender en el poema que la cultura y las tradiciones de las personas que son indígenas son sumamente importantes para la vida en Sudamérica. A pesar de su marginación, los indígenas en Los Andes utilizan la hoja de coca para ayudar en la altura de las montañas. El uso y el cultivo de la hoja de coca fue criminalizado (penalizado) a través de Sudamérica, aunque su uso para los indígenas era vital y esencial para su cultura. Este recipiente que se utiliza contiene limón lo que activa la hoja de la coca. Similarmente al jaguar, las tradiciones de los indígenas siempre estaban en peligro aunque estuvieran entrelazadas en las telas de lo que sería Latinoamérica. A través del hombre opuesto y las figuras de mujeres, el recipiente muestra la dualidad de lo que es importante para las personas que son Quimbaya, algo que todavía hoy es relevante para los Colombianos.

— Jeffrey Alexander Lopez, Curatorial Intern, American Art & Arts of the Americas Quimbaya. Poporo (Lime Container), 1-600 C.E. Tumbaga. Brooklyn Museum, Alfred W. Jenkins Fund, 35.507. Creative Commons-BY

#national poetry month #poetry #art #poems #art history #brooklyn museum #bkminterns

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nodameshield · 4 years ago

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how are we doing? have the tears dried yet? I know mine haven’t ::

let’s start light : research fellows count ! (also, lady, only ten years old? - I resent that).

Goh understands this?? he’s got a silly proud smile and it’s following Ash’s butchered storytelling??? love

research fellows count !

perfectly attainable dream

sure, go for it. (look at both of their supportive lil smiles, we love best friends)

we all know the scene that’s coming ahead, but I thought this was a beautiful demonstration of growth already on Goh’s side.

Listen before the sad part begins let us appreciate for a moment how Ash and Goh were smiling at EACH OTHER after the interview was over. cuties.

behold : the last frame we have of baby Sobble. I’m going to miss you, bean. thank you for everything<3 (he was so proud of his good deed as well!! my very heart)

just how fast the night changes, indeed.

Drizzle went through shock and pain at record speed and swiftly landed on anger - only to fall into ✨depression✨ just as quickly.

and then we just stayed there.

someone

(oh hey Cinderace ! good to see ya)

having

a rough morning

(I’m sorry, this scene was just fucking funny - the drama)

Cinderace’s proud big bro moment was just too sweet to leave out - let us not forget, he’s been a big bro since he was Raboot (and even as a temperamental Raboot, he was always gentle to Sobble). And now his baby bro has evolved as well. precious !

Goh handled this situation very maturely from the beginning. And here’s when the build up starts. He’s saying ‘hey, let me help you how I think you need to be helped” and he genuinely doesn’t mean any harm! naturally, his reaction is to help his Pokémon, in the way that has worked in the past.

but then he starts to understand maybe that’s not the best approach this time around.

and he’s ready to respect those new boundaries (of course, there’s no blame on Cinderace, either. Much like Goh, he - and everyone, really - was just trying to help in the way he thought was the best).

shoutout to the animation on this bit because Pikachu’s ears darting down was a delightful detail. Chloe’s expression and Grookey’s simmering down drove the point home as well.

ah, you coy little thing. Did you forget how your trainer almost left you behind because of how rebellious you were??? Because you made him feel as though you’d be better off without him?? (Cinderace has selective memory, you can’t change my mind, don’t be miss-leaded by the cuteness)

this build up was wonderful - we begin to hear all these reasons why, yeah? maybe he just wants to be alone.

maybe he’s still very afraid and careful of his surroundings, and his evolution made it worse? (he’d been popping up in random places in previous episodes, hiding, which was also great foreshadowing for this episode !)

maybe he’s cocooning himself until he’s ready to evolve again? (which, considering his disappointment and how badly he wanted to be Inteleon already, is a very plausible reason)

but Prof. Cerise gets it right when he says ‘we can’t really know for sure’ (which ties greatly with Goh’s upcoming scene) - is it your Drizzle’s quirk? are they all like this? who cares? Isn’t wonderful how he’s a living creature? how he’s got nuances and a personality? shouldn’t that be enough of a reason to look after him, and try to help him right now?

my child, still thinking he’s got to do everything on his own.

and these two are just like ????? Goh ??? watchu talking about ???

can you imagine how MUCH this moment means to him?? he was ready to keep going alone (it’s what he knows) and even when Ash and Chloe prove him, time and time again, that he’s not alone, there’s still something in Goh coded to believe others won’t care as much/won’t be there when he needs them. and that’s why he insists: I’ve got this. I can do it alone.

and, sure, but you don’t have to. that’s the beauty of friendship.

you tell him, Chloe. (actually, without Chloe calling him out, he might have taken longer to figure out where Drizzle was. so...) // but also, it gives us a glimpse into the fact that, while Goh might have felt very lonely, Chloe has been observing and caring for him - in her way - for a long minute as well.

my very point above.

HEY, LISTEN: he doesn’t know, either. he’s a child, words are hard, and you rotate along the four moods of childhood (happy, upset, scared, hungry (?)) and don’t ponder much on anything else because you are a child, there’s no emotional intelligence to speak of, no need for it, you’re being shaped by your environment and all the stimuli of the world being a new place. things like loneliness, confusion, anxiety... we can’t put those into words - hell, they’re fucking abstract and confusing even when we are adults.

and Goh’s stimuli and environment was, given what we know of his family life, a rather lonely one. Did his parents have a lot of spare time to take him to the park? I don’t think so. Was he good at going out there and asking other kids to play? ... probably not.

Chloe doesn’t strike me as an extrovert, either, so even if she wanted to get close to Goh or invite him to hang out, perhaps she was too shy as well. Heck, perhaps Goh’s reaction would’ve been like the one above, he simply didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to ! and that’s perfectly fine as well.

am I forgiving the anipoke team for making Goh cry? no, never. but this was beautifully executed so I can grow to live with it.

“why are you depressed?” “you have nothing to be sad about!” “look at all the wonderful things you have!” “just be happy again!” - sound familiar? yeah, this was incredibly well done.

as adults, perhaps we see this and think ‘shit, how cool that they’re prodding on these topics, it’s important’ and it is !!! so important !! but if it’s this impactful as young-adults/grown-ups, imagine how impactful it must be as a child to see this and feel perceived. I’m honestly so proud of this moment, this whole episode. I’m grateful they took the time to look into this maturely. and even if children don’t do a full-fledged analysis on it, if they relate (like I know so many of us did) they won’t forget it. and that’s beautiful.

darling I’m blanking on your TW handle I’m so sorry - but someone in a tweet SO RIGHTFULLY pointed out that these are the words Goh would have needed to hear when he was younger. saying them to Drizzle it’s a full circle moment for him, he’s hearing them as well, and it’s helping both of them grow.

He’s not forcing himself as Drizzle’s trainer. Goh bears no entitlement here. He’s saying ‘Hey, if you’re comfortable, if you want to share , I’ll be here’ / as a kid, people did care for him, they kept wanting to know what was going on, but Goh couldn’t put that in words and people pestering him only made it worse, but if someone had said ‘hey, when you’re ready...’ then,,,,yeah,,,,maybe it would’ve been different.

he’s offering that safety now to his Pokémon, something he didn’t have, but he grew to understand is what he (and now Drizzle) needed. If that doesn’t have you breaking down in a teary mess then you are stronger than I’ll ever be, because my glasses were cloudy by this point.

why, why, why. because you needed to hear all that as well, baby! so did a number of us. thank you.

I’ll say that, however it was that you connected with this moment, that’s yours to cherish.

Personally, I too had a lonely childhood marked by parents who overworked, and I too spent a lot of time alone in kindergarten and through elementary school because it was hard to make friends (turns out i’m an extrovert, ha, talk about breaking out of your shell...) so, obviously there were easy common grounds for me in this episode.

but I LOVED to read the reactions and realize so many people still connected with it, one way or the other. So many of us felt seen and understood and acknowledged in emotions that are so hard to put into words !!

so, again, if you identified with Goh or Drizzle or any of the topics in this episode, that’s very beautiful, and I hope the underlying message that you’re not alone gets through.

With Sobble, and now with Drizzle as well, Goh is very adamant to remind us that, however we are, that’s fine. there’s something that makes us special, regardless of other people’s opinions, or their ideas of how we *should be* // that’s the message I’m taking with me, at least.

and i can’t wait to see how this story line evolves !! I have no doubts that, when the moment comes, Inteleon will be a wonderful addition to the team, but Drizzle is here now, and he’s plenty wonderful already x

Bonus:

ha ha, yes. I watched this episode three times. And all three times I was a mess.

side note but a very important one: the animation, the voice acting, the dialog, the scenery of the starry night - the entire scene was so beautifully executed. so carefully crafted. ugh, amazing. just perfect. so happy.

#all right this took forever #if you are still reading thank you #anipoke #pokemon journeys #ep 62 #we won't be forgetting this one now will we #journeyshipping #Pokémon Journeys: The Series #SatoGou #Firstfriendshipping #Goh #satoshi #Chloe #ngl Chloe was the mvp #calling Goh out on his bs #we love to see her #Goh I'm so proud of you #please keep growing #you're beautiful and i love you

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unbridgeabledistances · 4 years ago

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hi<3 okay i am finally writing the new kotss chapter, and once again here is a lil contemplative snippet of tumblr-drabble length as a preview for when i write the whole thing in a day or two!😌💜 (mostly bc i am feeling sleepy and sappy this morning about mickey’s growth and just. cannot get over it.)

hope u enjoy<3

He fucking loved the dog, okay?

When they were first waiting in that overly-bright room in the dog rescue center (or whatever the fuck it was called) with Ian sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, and Mickey had seen the bundle of fur with its paws hitting the ground, a scrawny puppy with a swollen belly and a protruding ribcage— he’d immediately known he was in trouble.

First, because there was no fucking way that Ian was going to let them leave this place without it, since he practically made heart-eyes the second the puppy stumbled its way over to him— and second, because Mickey was absolutely, totally sure that he was going to fuck this up. Even reading the fucking description on the website on Ian’s phone screen, “comes from a troubled past and needs a loving home,” made something twist in his gut— because how the fuck was Mickey supposed to provide something like that?

Mickey didn’t take care of shit like this, like fragile puppies or babies or anything he could mess up— and he especially didn’t let in anything more than he could handle losing, anything soft and helpless and innocent that he couldn’t let slip between his fingers on his own accord. He’d learned that shit early, when whatever whispers and soft traces of touches on his cheeks were ripped away by the pry of Terry’s calloused hands— when one day, when he was fifteen, he and Mandy and everyone else didn’t have a mom anymore. Losing his mom, losing his family after years on the road, even losing fucking Terry those now months ago; all of that shit compounded and pressed on the walls of his ribcage in a way that Mickey himself didn’t really understand, and apparently was oozing out of him in a fucking dog shelter as he stood there frozen, in the face of a helpless frame on wobbly legs with silky grey fur.

For some reason, even though he and Ian had been talking about the dog in the abstract for days now, something about seeing the dog scared him shitless— because taking care of shit was objectively scary, and Mickey was shit out of practice with it. He’d never been good, comfortable, at holding something fragile in his hands, something that he could mess up in a second with a slip of judgement. Mickey was great at getting shit done, but with something like this— well, honestly, he wasn’t sure if he trusted himself enough, to not make those split-second choices that Terry made, the ones that left cigarette burns on his sides and snapped his jaw out of place and left him with so many aching wounds that only became more dark and cavernous through the years.

I’m gonna fuck this up.

What if he got too mad and kicked the dog, what if he fed it the wrong shit and it withered away and became more frail than it already was, what if it ran away or got hit by a car or got fucking shot by a stray bullet in a shitty neighborhood? It felt scary to choose to care about something this fragile, to sign up for the loss and the ripping ache that would follow if Mickey overreacted or fucked something up or made a slip-second misstep. In the Milkovich family, loving was a liability— a promise that someone you cared about could get pummeled and bloodied and beaten in front of you, could get handcuffed and dragged upstate for months or years in the blink of an eye. When Mickey was fifteen, scratching “FUCK LOVE” and “STAY THE FUCK OUT” signs on pieces of cardboard with Sharpies he’d stolen from the dollar store, he’d made a promise to himself to harden himself against that weakness— against that loss.

And then, of course, freckle-faced chicken-legged Ian Gallagher showed up at his doorstep anyways.

So he’d let himself love Gallagher—and eventually he’d let himself love Franny after she plopped herself in his lap one day, wearing a princess tiara talking a mile a minute about monster trucks; and he didn’t even mind hanging out with Liam once in a while on those late nights in the Gallagher house, when Ian would be working a double shift and he and Liam flopped on opposite sides of the couch, watching shitty cartoons in a comfortable silence as the glow from the TV screen flickered on their faces.

But none of that felt like a choice—all of those people, those warm bodies to love, just fell into Mickey’s lap; so it wasn’t Mickey’s fault, really, if shit hit the fan. It wasn’t like he made the choice to love them in the first place— it just happened.

But adopting a dog (or having a fucking kid, like he knew Ian wanted)— that was a choice. That was telling something, someone, that you were ready to take care of them; that you were ready to lose everything when they inevitably got taken away, that you were ready to pour all of your fucked-up bullshit into someone and hope that you weren’t the reason why they turned out screwed up. It just seemed like too much; and in the face of the tiny fucking furball that Ian was cooing over as he sat cross-legged, Mickey’s immediate impulse was to keep his distance and tether himself into the linoleum floor miles away.

But of course Ian had done that fucking thing only he had the power to do, and melted whatever iron walls Mickey had soldered into place with a gentle Mick, d’you wanna pet her?— and of course the fucking dog had to nuzzle her goddamn tiny wet nose into Mickey’s hand, and give a too-trusting lick to his palm as she rolled over onto her back, exposing her vulnerable belly even after whatever fucking dog-fight bullshit she’d been through— and immediately Mickey couldn’t couldn’t see a timeline in which they didn’t wrap this fucking mutt up in a soft towel and take her home to the dog bed in their apartment and get her healthy on gourmet fucking dog food from a monogrammed tin bowl.

So even though it drove him fucking crazy that she was so fucking skinny, and the entire first night when she’d slept curled on the bed he kept waking up and googling the best dog foods and exercise regimens and refilling her water bowl at the kitchen sink like an obsessed fucking maniac— he really couldn’t help it.

Against every instinct, he’d chosen to love when he didn’t have to— and he was starting the realize that maybe that shit wasn’t a weakness.

“So, I hear you guys’ve got a new mascot.”

Tommy was ambling in the front door, right on the dot of their 2 P.M. opening time, with Kermit skittishly following a few paces behind him.

Ian rolled his eyes from behind the bar when he thought Mickey wasn’t looking (fucking traitor).

“Yeah, I think the whole neighborhood knows by now. Someone’s been a little too eager with the dog photos.”

Which— fuck that. So what if he fucking posted a few pictures of Baz to the mostly-defunct Alibi Facebook page that Kev had given them the login info to, some of which featured Baz wearing Mickey’s sunglasses when they were partway through a walk? Nobody needed to know that Mickey alone was behind that shit— Ian liked taking dog photos too, even though they were never as good as Mickey’s, and mostly just featured the moments Mickey was passed out on the couch with Baz sleeping on his chest.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Ian grinned and turned towards Mickey. “Nothin.’ Just nice to see that you’re growing into the whole dog parent thing. Though it is kind of turning into a stage mom thing.”

Mickey furrowed his brows. “Fuck you. The customers love her. It’s good for business.”

Ian held up his hands in surrender, still smirking—which just cause Mickey to shove him gently in his sternum.

“It’s not my fault Baz is the prettiest pit on the fucking Southside.”

In the corner of the bar, Baz was sitting on her cushion that they’d bought at a boujee pet store down the road, to keep downstairs at the Alibi so they could keep her other dog bed upstairs— and when Tommy and Kermit came into the room her ears immediately lifted, her tail twitching excitedly at the new faces. Tommy just gave a wary side-eyed glance to the dog pillow before plopping himself onto his usual stool, but Kermit nervously crouched beside the cushion and gave Baz’s chin a scratch.

“Ey! Paws off the princess until you drop some money on a beer, Kermit. I didn’t haul myself down to the empty bar on a Monday afternoon to watch you pet my fucking dog.”

Kermit shuffled to his usual seat beside Tommy at the end of the bar. “She’s cute. I didn’t realize pit bulls could be so scrawny.”

Baz was already filling out fast in the few days she’d been living with them; but it was true that she was still small and wiry for her age. Mickey made sure they got some sort of fresh dog food shit from the pet store that they had to keep in the refrigerator (even though Ian insisted kibble was fine, like a fucking cheapskate) to get her strength up, and he also got a bunch of fucking vitamins, like salmon oil and shit to make sure her coat was shiny—and yes, okay, maybe he also bought her a badass collar with spikes on it, and maybe he also dropped money on one of those engraved pet tags in the shape of a skull and crossbones that said “Bazooka Gallagher-Milkovich” on it with the Alibi’s address on it. He couldn’t fucking help it; they had a steady stream of cash coming in from crowded nights, they were planning on doing Ian’s karaoke shit once a month, and Mickey felt like they could afford to spend money on shit like this—like they could afford to do this right. And because of Mickey’s doting, even though Ian had started to take Baz for runs in the morning, it was no secret that she liked Mickey ever-so-slightly more than Ian; when they were laying in bed at night Baz would always hop up and curl into Mickey’s side and leave inches between her and Ian, causing a surprised chuckle to escape Mickey’s lips the first time it happened as he scratched behind her ears. Ian just stared at him, with some sappy fucking smile on his face.

“The fuck’re you looking at?”

“Nothing. Just glad we took her home.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, but felt a smile creeping onto his lips despite himself. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And I’m definitely not jealous of a dog right now.”

It was later in the evening and the bar was pretty empty, a standard for a Monday night— Mickey had been trying to train Baz to stay on her cushion now that she’d learned how to sit and lay down on command; much to the amusement of Tommy and Kermit, who kept fucking distracting her. If Mickey had his way, he’d train Baz to bark at Kermit whenever he said something stupid (the guy just got on his fucking nerves, what could he say)—but of course Baz had other plans once she realized Kermit was the one of the pair who would pet her, and kept nuzzling her head onto Kermit’s thigh and thumping her tail on the floor.

“I thought pit bulls were supposed to be vicious.”

“Fuck you, Kermit. That’s fucking… dog racist, or some shit.”

Kermit just meekly looked down at his half-empty beer glass, as Ian came in the front door from where he was bringing in the sandwich board from the curb, not expecting any more customers for the night. He reached down to ruffle Baz’s fur along the way.

“How’s our girl doing?”

“Pretty good. Once these assholes get out of here we can called it a night.”

Tommy scoffed at that. “Milkovich, we’re some of your most loyal customers— hell, we’re your only loyal customers. I think we deserve more than insults.”

“Oh yeah? You gonna go drink the day away somewhere else?”

Tommy faltered for a moment, and raised an eyebrow. “Touche.”

“Alright, bozos. Time to pack up. No one else is coming in tonight, we’ll see you tomorrow. Me and Ian have better shit to do.”

Tommy drained the last of his beer, placing a wad of one-dollar bills on the countertop and giving an exaggerated salute. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”

When they left the bar and the doors were locked, Ian’s shoulders started to shake with laughter. “Jesus. I never thought I’d be at a point in my life when I’m dependent on the consistent generosity of Tommy and Kermit, but here I am.”

“More like consistent alcoholism.”

Ian smirked, then flopped to sit on a barstool opposite the countertop from Mickey, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Are you fine taking Baz out? I’m kinda tired, wanna get a start on dinner.”

“Yeah, man. Works for me.”

They’d been living with each other in the Gallagher house for months, sure, but they were still new at doing this— at only accounting for each other’s schedules, at divvying up tasks like walking the dog and cooking dinner and doing fucking dishes rather than just coasting on someone like Debbie getting them by. Things were different now— things were settled and quiet, in a way that still made Mickey like he had to rub his eyes extra hard to clear them in the still, dark mornings in the apartment, like he wasn’t convinced this shit was real.

After dinner they sat cross-legged on their bed, watching a movie on Ian’s old beat-up laptop with Baz sitting between them and chewing on one of her toys that squeaked loudly every few seconds (this one was a stuffed animal in the shape of a police officer, because in Mickey’s own words at the pet store, “ACAB motherfucker”)— and later that night, wrapped in the smell of laundry soap on clean sheets and dog shampoo, Mickey slept easily.

Maybe this was something he could trust himself to hold on to.

#catch me laying in bed & ignoring my exams & instead writing This #ily all i hope u are having good thursdays<3 #gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #bazooka gallagher milkovich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #ixm

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stardustincarnate · 4 years ago

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TOGETHER FOREVER // Asra x Reader

ASRA + A NON-BINARY MC

WORD COUNT: 2541

GENRE: Fluff

Water.

Flowing water, molded into ballerinas, swaying to the slow, dreamy rhythm of a harp, by a skilled magician, surrounded me as I stood in the middle of a vast, colorful oasis. It took me a while before I realized that I was in Asra's gate. How did I end up being there?

The plants sprung to life, engulfing me, filling my vision with a dancing of warm colors that reminded me of him as I closed my eyes. I could feel the phantom of warmth embrace me, and when I opened my eyes, I was greeted with those deep and sincere purple eyes of his.

The world seemed to have slowed down, every action taking some time as if it was to savor the moment. I found myself loosely wrapping my arms around his neck as he caressed my other cheek, and I leaned to the feeling.

I could see Asra's magnificent aura combining with mine, making a beacon of blinding light that went up to the sky.

His tender touch never fails to send me flying over to the moon, both our magic combined as if speaking to one another, my heart reacting to his own.

He pressed his forehead against mine, a blush creeping up his face.

"I love you."

With that, I had unfortunately awoken. I yawned, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, soon realizing that Asra was not beside me anymore. The smell of my favorite soup wafted out from the kitchen to the bedroom, causing me to blearily walk towards it. The sleepiness soon ebbed my system once the smell got stronger. Asra wasn't aware that I already woke up, so I sneakily went on to hug him from behind, earning an adorable gasp from him and making me chuckle.

"[MC]? You're awake. Did you have a good sleep?"

I nuzzled his fluffy hair. "Mhm I suppose. I had a really good dream."

"Oh? Why don't you tell me about it."

"We were in your gate. But it didn't look like before.. it was more magical that time. Well, just us doing some romantic things.. Involving magic too!"

Asra let out a chuckle, "Why don't we make it real then?" He turned around, giving me that playful look of his. I grinned. "Ooh, I love the sound of that."

Soon, I found myself being fed by him as we ate our breakfast. Faust kept on squeezing us alternatively. She seemed excited about something.

"[MC], what do you say we go out for a trip today?" Asra asked, wiping off some remaining soup droplets on my chin which I hadn't noticed.

"Where will we go?"

"I thought about bringing you to the magical realms, but then I thought of something better." He casted a wistful look on me. "Let's forget about the realms for the mean time. Let's just explore the city. What do you think?"

"You know I'm up for it! But you'll have to let me take a bath first!" I chuckled.

"Take your time. I won't mind." He playfully winked at me as I headed towards the bathroom.

Some time later, we arrived at the city market. Vesuvians were partially rowdy and quiet. Though some even came stumbling near the two of us, but it was alright. Asra held my hand tightly as I saw him grinning at something— or someone. The market seemed a bit more playful today. Maybe that's why he decided to take me here? The fun in the atmosphere was tangible, especially when I heard the strumming of guitars— and the next moment, all I knew was that Asra and I were dancing in the middle of the street, accompanied by some other couples until the beat had stopped.

It was fun while it lasted. It's as if my body had a mind of its own when I let myself dance to the rhythm. I didn't care about anything else other than the joyous music. I knew what felt right, and it felt right to let myself sway to the rhythm with Asra. Abstract magic bubbled around the two of us. How I love feeling that way.

However, right after the dancing session, the world suddenly dissipated into nothingmess. I was left all alone in a dark, fathomless land where no one seemed to hear me. No Asra... no Faust. I tried to connect to them using my magic, but something was intercepting it. No no, I didn't feel something ominous despite the situation. So what, exactly, was stopping me? I called out to my magic once more, and there I felt a recognizable aura somewhere. Asra's. He was nearby, I could tell, but it's as if he was hiding behind a veil which I didn't know where to find. I was in distress, but then something dawned me.

Asra must've been playing tricks with me. I should've known from the beginning. Ugh, I am so going to get that rascal! I let my magic surround me, and then I was back at the market— but I was alone. If he was pulling a prank on me, I'd give him credits for the effort of making the crowd disappear too. I clicked my tongue but later on grinned. What kind of prank was it? I got a little excited to know what to see at the end of the tunnel.

"Asraaaaaa!"

I called out for the nth time. I was aimlessly walking that I didn't realize I already bumped to a hulking figure. The smell of Myrrh...

"Muriel! Have you seen my sneaky magician?"

He looked away as soon as I met his eyes. He didn't reply. He just walked away. I followed him with my eyes but then he stopped his tracks, reluctantly beckoning me to join him. And I did. And I couldn't believe what my eyes were seeing. Asra really did execute a massive prank for me because the whole Vesuvia seemed empty of people. I was beginning to get confused when I still didn't see anyone, but when we turned to a corner, leading to which I presume is the docks, an enthralling scenery surprised me.

My fellow Vesuvians were scattered on the side. The middle was empty and I supposed I would be walking there, and I was right. I let out a confused noise when they suddenly started singing all together. Their voices were harmonious that it somehow made my heart feel lighter than it already was. I could spot a few familiar faces.

Selasi, our favorite baker, then came up to me, handing me something. I was surprised that it wasn't bread but a bouquet of my favorite flowers. I thanked him, but before I could ask furthermore, he hastily ran back to the crowd.

"Muriel, what's going on?"

What did I expect? He didn't even turn around. I guessed I wouldn't be having any answers until I see the mastermind behind all of this.

I spotted Aisha and Salim in the crowd. They gave me a meaningful smile, a sly look on their faces. I smiled back and proceeded to walk down the center even if I had no idea what was happening. Their attentions were all on me. It made me feel overwhelmed, as if I was the star of Vesuvia. And jeez, was the Countess and all the other courtiers somewhere in the crowd?

Speaking of, I soon found Nadia standing in a corner. Her elegant figure stood out the most. I was taken aback when she walked to me, and I received a bouquet of flowers once again. She gave me a playful look and then weaved herself through the crowd. I soon spotted Portia, and she did the same thing to me, winking afterwards.

And by the time I had reached Julian standing in the middle of the docks, my arms were already full of bouquets, but he gave a blind eye to that and proceeded to put another bouquet on top of the rest that I could barely see what's in front of me. And as I expected, the strain in my arms made the bouquets fall to the ground. I regretfully looked at them. But just as I was about to pick them up, Julian intercepted, swaying his long, lanky arms that almost hit my face.

"Whoops! No no no no. We can't have our main star doing the work here, can we?"

He flashed a shameless grin and started picking up the bouquets. I didn't argue and instead chuckled. Then as I lifted my gaze, I finally saw Asra, standing at the edge and giving me a look as if to tell "I'm expecting you."

He smiled at me as I ran into him, completely forgetting the fact that he's at the edge. One slight move and he would fall into the water. But something unusual happened. 'Asra' bursted into fizzy bubbles and tiny butterflies that soon engulfed me, making me giggle. And once they gave way, I was greeted by a bunch of tiny ballerinas which emerged from the water. They were careful not to get too close and drench my clothes. My smile grew even wider as I recalled my dream. There were also dancing ballerinas surrounding me, but bigger. Asra must had taken note of that to pull the trick off.

I pivoted, seeing 'Asra' give me another bouquet of flowers. But they were much larger than the ones my friends had given to me. The other half was drenched though since it was given to me by the water in which Asra shaped himself to.

"[MC]." I heard a boisterous call, making me turn around for the nth time, and that time I finally saw the real Asra. Solid and radiating an immense aura of magic. Joyous but somehow perplexed. I threw myself at him, and we bursted into giggles.

"My, my.. You really know how to pull a trick off your sleeves. Is this really the real you, or are you just another one of his illusions?"

"I'm the real one you know," His airy voice tickled my ears. There was a playful tone in his voice. "Want me to prove it?"

"N-Not in front of everyone!" I flushed but eventually cleared my throat. "Uhm, mind explaining yourself? Please tell me what's gotten into your mind to do this."

He only gave me a smug look, but later on evaded my gaze as a blush crept on his face. The crowd had already stopped singing. They were silent and watching us as if expecting something huge to happen. I looked at my friends, who were only giving me playful looks. I frowned, but then it hit me.

Or I might just be assuming things. It was just a massive prank, right? Asra didn't do it because of...

"[MC]."

"Yeees?"

"I.. You know how much I care for you.. Right?"

I heard someone in the crowd squeal.

"Yes. You told me about it when.. when we were at the fountain... during the most recent masquerade." I blushed as I reminisced the scene. It made my heart flutter when he told me that he loves me. It filled me with joy. We've been through a lot...

"We've been through a lot of adventures ever since we defeated the Devil. And I treasure the memories that we keep on making... I find it better to go on adventures with you by my side rather than going alone," He looked at me and smiled. It was my turn to look away due to our faces' proximity. "You showed me a different perspective of the world, [MC], and I can't imagine living a life without you anymore. I feel like as long as we're together, we'll be able to overcome anything."

My heart erratically beated as he said those words. A mixture of Aww's and other complements came from the crowd, but Asra didn't seem to mind. He was staring at me. And only at me.

"I love you, [MC]. And I'll keep on loving you.." He widened the distance between us a little, kneeling down and as if searching for something in his pocket. I didn't know how red my face was at the time. I felt like exploding.

He really was doing it.

He was proposing to me.

Asra stopped his search and shyly looked around, but he was somehow distressed.

"Now where did I put it...." He looked down, facepalming. "Faust, where are you? I told you not to play with it."

At the mention of her name, Faust slithered towards him, something shiny in her mouth. Asra chuckled and scolded her as she took refuge in his sleeve. Then, he averted his gaze back to me, his eyes gleaming with hope and love.

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you, [MC]. And I hope you do too... Will you marry me?"

He showed me the ring that flashed the colors of the rainbow before my very eyes. Milliseconds after he said that the crowd started cheering and squealing, and I didn't even utter my answer yet, and I couldn't due to all the noise. Portia took care of it though.

"HEY! Did we actually hear what [MC] said? QUIET!" And the noise dissipated.

The more I looked at Asra, the more I realized how nervous he actually was. Even with a brave facade, I could still see through him. We were blushing so bad as he waited for my answer. But I felt like I couldn't speak at the time. I was overwhelmed with euphoria that I couldn't bring myself to utter a single word or even move. It took me a few seconds to calm myself, responding to his question with a smile.

"D-Do you even have to ask?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Of course it is! Yes! I'll marry you!"

Asra stood up with a wide, genuine smile as he put the ring on my finger. It was filled with an intricate design, the pattern carved meticulously. I was so amazed at how detailed it was. I looked at it with awe. I couldn't believe what was hapenning. I might've swooned.

"Good. I was beginning to think you wouldn't.."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know." Asra laughed, pulling me into a kiss. His magic surged into me and when he pulled away, he immediately took me in his embrace. The crowd started cheering once again that I could barely hear myself over it.

"Did you make the ring?"

"Yes. Did you like it?"

"Like it? I love it!" I flushed against his chest.

"The ring only?"

"Psh, of course you too! I love you, Asra!"

He chuckled and intertwined our fingers. I blushed even more. If I could explode, I already would've.

"I love you too. I loved you ever since."

"Asra! Stop making me blush.."

"But I was just stating facts! Right Faust?"

"Right!"

He really couldn't fail to make me blush, to create butterflies and grow flowers inside me, and to make my heart feel light and filled with pure bliss.

We were engaged, and I couldn't wait to see what the future stores for us.

The future that includes him and I, completely contented with each other's presence.

#asra the arcana #the arcana #the arcana game #asra x reader #the arcana x you #asra alnazar #asra the magician #the arcana x reader #asra x mc #fluff all the way #ASRA = BEST BOI #reader insert #character x you #x reader #SPOILERWEGONMARRYOURBOI

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professortennant · 4 years ago

Note

Ok, how about Rebecca consoling Ted after the team loses a big game?

For a moment, just a moment, she--along with the rest of the AFC Richmond crowd--had thought they had pulled off a miracle, a Cinderella story that the press would be talking about for ages. Relegated only to win a Championship League final in the very next year, a team with a vengeance and a coach with a chip on his shoulder.

He hid it well, Rebecca thought. But now that she knew he hated being underestimated, counted out before the match even begun, she had seen a real change in him. She’d asked Beard about the change during a training session she was observing, the sun and blue sky too tempting to not go out for a bit. Ted was running right alongside his players, yelling words of encouragement and correction in equal measure.

“I think he’s realized he’s not in Kansas anymore.” A beat of silence and then, “And I think he wants to prove himself to y--everyone.”

She hummed in acknowledgment and watched as Ted blew his whistle, jogging to midfield, and animatedly demonstrating the run he wanted for his players. It seemed now that the team was on the same page, it was time to put the real work in.

But Lady Fate had other plans for AFC Richmond this evening, a night that should have been victory. A dirty tackle on Richard left him with a torn ACL, lifted off the field on a stretcher, a drizzle of rain made for less-than-ideal field conditions, and a series of simple turnover errors had left the team in disarray and confusion. It was over before it could start.

In the locker room, she watched as Ted tried to cheer his team up, noting that third place didn’t mean they were down and out for the Premier League, that they just had to work a little bit harder for a little bit longer. But even Ted’s heart seemed to be a little bit broken, a little disappointed.

“Ah hell, who am I kiddin’? This flat out stinks. I really wanted this for you boys, I really did. Maybe I let y’all get ahead of yourselves. Let myself get ahead of myself,” he amended, eyes flicking down to his Nikes. “And I’m sorry for that. I should have kept you focused on tonight’s game. We can’t help injuries and field conditions, but we can control energy and the fundamentals. We were sloppy tonight. That team wasn’t better than us. I know it. Y’all know it.” He sighed, looking around the room. “We are going to be promoted this season, fellas. But tonight: Be sad, be disappointed, be angry. Be whatever you gotta be tonight to light a fire under your butts because we are gonna work that much harder starting tomorrow morning.” He nodded his head at each of them before turning on his heels, shoulders hunched inward, leaving his players behind and Coach Beard to wrap up the evening.

Rebecca frowned, following him into his office, shutting the door with a soft click. It had become custom for her to join the team--win or lose--in the locker room, his words from so many months ago still ringing warmly in her ears. You liven up the place.

But this was not the Ted Lasso she was accustomed to seeing: not angry, not encouraging, not blissfully optimistic. Just wilted. Disappointed.

He looked up at her from his slumped position in his chair, a small, tired smile on his face. “Hey, boss,” he sighed, rubbing his hands over his eyes and through his hair, ruffling it and making it stand up. “Not our best showing.”

She stood in front of him, hip leaning on his desk, as she considered him. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she teases. “There were some real lowlights last season. You yelling like a maniac about stopping the clock comes to mind.”

“Yeah, well, I still think it’s a stupid rule. Why keep the clock running when no one’s playing? Don’t make a lick of sense to me."

“You know what doesn’t make a lick of sense to me?,” she prompted, earning a delighted look from him for using his own phrase as a segue. She tilted her head towards the locker room where she could see players milling about, heading for the showers or crowding around Coach Beard and his whiteboard. “That speech out there wasn’t exactly the Ted Lasso motivational speech I’ve come to expect.”

He groaned and quite suddenly lurched forward, forehead smacking the desk with a loud thunk. She acted without thinking, hands immediately going to the back of his head, fingers sliding through the thick hair, rubbing his head. “Ted! What the bloody hell?”

“‘m fine,” he said, voice muffled against a stack of papers, still facedown. She laughed, relieved to know he hadn’t completely lost his marbles, and tugged gently on his hair, encouraging him to sit up.

Instead, he groaned appreciatively in a way that made her heart pound double time in her chest, fingers hesitating in their movement. She went to withdraw her hand but he turned his head to face her, the movement entangling her hands further.

She looked down at him, eyebrow arched. “Did you turn into a canine while I wasn’t looking?”

He panted at her playfully, a small, half-hearted woof escaping his mouth. “New deal boss: You keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll tell ya the God’s honest truth.”

“You’d tell me the God’s honest truth regardless of my petting, but go on,” she conceded. It was living out a harmless fantasy, she told herself. It wasn’t her fault his hair always looked as it did: perfectly coiffed and styled until it wasn’t, strands falling into his eyes, causing him to develop a new tic of running his hands through his hair, flipping it back into place. It had been maddening to watch and she was self-aware enough to acknowledge the urge to run her own fingers through his hair weren’t platonic in the least (the other images and fantasies accompanying the urge were definitely not to be explored in a packed locker room).

He grinned lazily up at her as she continued stroking his hair, nails scratching ever so slightly at his scalp, causing him to stutter as he spoke, eyes falling closed. “I let them down,” he confesses softly. “I let them get ahead of themselves, horse before the cart, counted those damn chickens before the eggs hatched. I let them think this one was in the bag--didn’t stop ‘em from goofin’ around at practice--training, whatever. I let them down.”

His eyes flickered open, peering up at her, sorrowful. “I let you down.”

Her hands tightened in his hair reflexively. “Me? Ted, how could you let me down? You’ve done everything I’ve asked of you.”

“I told you we’d win the whole fucking thing,” he reminded her. “Close but no cigar.”

"I never thought you’d be one to throw pity parties, Ted Lasso,” she reminded him, tugging at his hair once more before sliding her hand down to his shoulder and pulling, encouraging him to sit up. He did so, exaggerating the motion as if every movement cost him something. She bit back a smile.

He swiveled in his chair and it was only then she realized the position they were in: him in the chair, legs splayed while she stood between them, leaning back against the desk. Her cheeks flushed warm and she shook her head slightly, clearing the fantasy from between her ears.

She reached down to take his hand in hers, squeezing slightly. He clung back, fingers wiggling between hers so they were interlocked. She forgot sometimes that he was as desperate to touch as she was to be touched.

“You did promise me you’d win the whole fucking thing. But I don’t recall a timestamp on that promise,” she reminded him. “And this is not over, Ted, not by a long shot. We have one more chance to make it to the Premier League for next season. The season is not yet over, Coach. And I don’t want your players--our players--thinking it is, either. We have work to do and I need you pushing every single one of those men to believe in themselves and this team the way that I believe in you.”

The words came earnestly but awkwardly, a year of walls and shields and a lifetime of British distaste for sincerity and emotions making the speech stilted. It certainly wasn’t a patented Ted Lasso speech, but she thought it a rather good Rebecca Welton.

Ted was looking at her with something akin to awe, mouth parted and eyes bright and gleaming.

“Rebecca?” he asked, voice low, standing from his seat, still holding her hand. With him standing and her leaning against his desk, he towered over her ever so slightly, just enough that she had to look up to him. “I would really, really like to kiss you right now, if that’s alright.”

She blinked at him for a moment, mind racing, before giving a single, jerky nod. The moment she indicated her consent, he was there, fingers disentangling from hers so he had both hands free to cup her face on either side, cradling her gently as his lips pressed softly, quickly to hers. The combination of the warmth of his lips, the tickle of his mustache, and the sudden shift in action had her gasping into the kiss, her hands steadying themselves on his hips, clutching at one of his ridiculous jumpers, kissing him back as insistently as he was kissing her.

And then it was over.

But Ted kept his hands on either side of her face, thumbs stroking over the soft curve of her cheek, his forehead pressed to hers. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time now, but, uh, never seemed like the right time.”

“And now was the right time?,” she asked breathlessly, her own fingers and thumbs making abstract geometric shapes along his hips and sides, tracing the lines of him.

He pulled back, grinning, and she was delighted to see that his eyes were once again gleaming with the positive, radiant, sunshine force she had come to associate with him.

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good pep talk.”

#ted lasso #ted lasso fic #ted x rebecca #THANK YOU FOR THE PROMPT #honestly regretted having the team around bc they woulda gotten up to a lot more in that office...#and rebecca's fantasies are my own my god that hair #andreasbayden

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jonathankatwhatever · 2 years ago

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This is very strange: I just opened up the article on the Hodge Conjecture, read the introduction, and found myself wondering where the conjecture is because this is clear in grid squares. Like of course you can study holes by fitting objects inside them, around them, across them, and so on. This is what we’ve been defining. So, unless I’m not seeing something, and without technical detail, it looks like the Conjecture is not a conjecture at all.

How many problems is that? 3 or 4? I think 3.

I think we have a shot at Navier-Stokes. I’m talking high level only. No chance with current level of understanding to reach Yang-Mills. I’m not sure what the issues are there at all. I mean the mass gap is the layer at which you become sensitive to the existence of the complexity which was hidden behind the x,yK. We’ve talked about that. In fact, the thinking over the past few days reminds me a lot of the strategy group meetings. Sensitive to the existence of complexity. Use of overwhelming force because the math meant you didn’t actually lose anyone, applying infinity to reduce the importance of any single negative engagement, which is the same as identifying the positive pathways, the ways forward, the stories that emerge from those, however weird. Working out how an eruption here relates to something over there which is yet unseen, meaning we need to trace the linkages on the other side, which we can only do either by statistical probability matching, or by inverting ourselves over the dividing line, which can only be done accurately by approaching that divider as close as possible, or rather to the attachment point which abstracts their disk, both at its center pole and in its expansion potential. I used to wonder why these meetings were so fascinating. I remember spending a lot of time talking about how to visualize the issue, and coming up with the idea that you could see down to a certain level, down close to the dividing line, so you were in fact enveloped but not completely cut off by that line, meaning you retained that essential portion of you, which explains the dreams, both the escape and the being yanked to safety ones,

Wow. I am either completely crazy or I really need to accept that this is all true. It makes sense. AMT today was about things like how a gestural M has a 1Space meaning. So, M is that as you draw the line under the M, that connects the opposite Ends so one side is divided into 2 1Segments. Then I could see how this makes a space by making an M above, and then flipping it, meaning we’ve now separated the two axis lines by a double sized space. You can see the Hodge Conjecture in gestural.

I also saw how A represents the Aleph concept which is actually a pyramid on legs, meaning it extends down and it raises up. This would be a close representation of the source of ideas like Jacob’s Ladder: the rungs are that pyramid rising up toward disappearing and coming down until you can put your foot on the lowest step.

That image just drew out as projecting, equal, bigger or smaller, meaning still or moving at or away. Which means inverting over that implied axis.

You know I have held out understanding gestural as the great test. AMT got into it. I remember seeing R form, which didn’t make much sense for a moment, until I saw that it can make a diamond of triangles with legs. In other words, I’m seeing the shapes act as shapes. That means the shape of a word may at times approach the gestural meaning of the word, which would be a gestural lookalike, sort of a homonym. And that connects to my art fun times when I’d paint a word like nervous to be nervous or I’d flip them, and I’d makes series of universes in various stages of placid to chaos.

I’m going to the farm for the weekend. Have never been.

I am entirely in your hands. I mean that. As part of AMT, I realized I was drawing mentally with my right hand, so I switched, and a bunch of interesting things occurred, including the realization that my left hand can be observed, needs to be observed differently, and that comparison is this process, and this is hard to get out, the time lag in my left reduces past the label of non-left perspective and that bips. Which means the left functions better when I remove even the notational existence of right hand control, passing it entirely over. My mind almost immediately detaches and the physical process operates better while I’m consciously making observations about what is going on. It’s nice to experience, and my ability to trigger this as a response has become noticeable. As in, I can say to myself that I have the body of a 17 year old and no matter how untrue that is I react internally as though this were true, which immediately relaxes the tension that time added to that age.

It really has become second nature to do stuff like a kid. I can’t remember the last time I put on socks sitting down. And now I only put my shoes on standing. But to continue with the left side transfer, this handing over works because that is my natural side, and it’s nice to be home, because stuff makes a lot more sense from this side. Example: walking along the river, I found myself walking on the edge of the path, turning left, right, doing cool moves, trying to act normal, and then I realized that when I turned so my left led, as I handed over control to the left foot, I no longer needed to look at what my feet and indeed most of my body was doing. I was looking at the rocks, at the way the ground looked and the patterns in the contours, and how pretty it was, and completely trusted that my body would function using the information available, which was minimized to peripheral by literally imposing a focus on the far side of the line, which was also down at a variable distance, against an uneven, wavering surface.

It was a glimpse into natural athletics from the perspective of someone who couldn’t be one because everything was flipped around inside, so there’d be bursts and other moments when the right perspective would be in the right alignment to enable the natural left to function efficiently. So much of my life has been this misalignment of internal control. I used to get excited by the glimpses, and I’d pursue the paths that resisted because I could not accept that was all I could achieve.

So now, I can turn and twist and bend my knees without fear of pain or injury. And when pain occurs, I treat it like I did when I was 17, as an annoyance you work around.

I need a break.

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gaylotusthatexists · 4 years ago

Text

undesirable

pairing: platonic dlampr ig? focused more on platonic logicality

summary: Logan realises that the others don’t give him physical affection as much as they do for everyone else, and conducts an experiment in order to make himself more ‘desirable’.

trigger warnings: sympathetic janus and remus, touch starvation, negative self talk, please let me know if i need to add anything else

word count: 3233

a/n: so this idea came to me due to this thread with @5-falsehoods-phonated so i wrote this entire thing in one go last night. logan bby i am sorry. i hope y’all enjoy~

ao3

Patton hugged him today, for... the first time in a while, Logan was pretty sure. He couldn't remember that last time he was physical with any of the other sides, preferring to keep his distance, not really feeling like he needed it. Studies had shown that physical affection was important in a human's development, and he knew how important physical affection was to Thomas himself, how people... enjoyed it? Logan wasn't human, though - he never really considered that he'd need it, that he'd want it.

Did he want it? It had felt nice, warm, comforting when Patton had hugged him earlier. Why had Patton hugged him again? Patton had been... excited, Logan was pretty sure. He thought that Logan's idea had been good, and in turn given him a hug to display that... happiness? And it hadn't been terrible, Logan supposed. Startling at first, of course, and he hadn't been quite sure on how to respond, wasn't sure what the proper hugging etiquette was. That was kind of concerning - did he really have so little hugs that he didn't even know how to react when someone gave him one? Surely he should know what to do with that. Surely he should have known how much physical touch burned, in a... good way.

He wanted to hug Patton again, but wasn't quite sure how to initiate it. Just asking for a hug would seem uncharacteristic of Logan - Patton would assume something was wrong, which wasn't true, of course, but Logan wouldn't know what to tell him. He'd hugged him after he explained his idea, so maybe just having good ideas was the way to go? But Logan put his ideas forward all the time, and they had never received that kind of response. In fact, it wasn't even his best idea, so...

Logan scooted over to his computer and opened a word document, beginning to type down his ideas for a new experiment. An attempt to figure out how physical affection worked, why it felt so good, and how he was to get it. He felt... stupid, as he typed up his hypothesis, his brain telling him he was pathetic for even wanting that, but his arms were cold and he was desperate to feel that heat again, he needed this.

~*~

Day one. Logan had stayed up late the night before, researching why people formed relationships, what it was about people that made other people want to touch them. He hadn't found any solid advice, nothing real - all just stuff about feelings, things that he didn't, couldn't understand. So instead, he decided to take the day to observe the others in action, figure out what made them initiate hugs or the like. Perhaps if he could document the behaviours and attempt to imitate them, people would find him more 'desirable' to engage with.

He hadn't realised before just how much the others touched each other. It seemed like everywhere he looked, someone was touching another. Roman and Virgil curled up on the sofa watching movies, Patton and Janus making cookies in the kitchen with their shoulders touching. Why was it that whenever Logan did those activities, everyone kept their distance? He occasionally would watch documentaries with Virgil, those David Attenborough ones that Virgil said helped to 'calm' him, but Virgil had never tried to cuddle Logan on those nights. And then when Logan cooked dinner with Patton or Janus, they always stayed on their own side of the kitchen, nowhere near close enough to just casually touch.

That got him thinking - was there something wrong with Logan himself? Was it something about him that just... made the others not want to go near him?

Perhaps Logan needed to change a lot more than just his behaviour, if that was the case.

From his spot on the couch, he looked over at Remus and Janus standing by the stairs, Remus telling some sort of joke. Janus started laughing, and placed a hand on Remus' shoulder. They got closer and closer until they were hugging, and Logan felt... something, deep in his chest. Anger? Sadness?

Jealousy?

No, no, Logan had never been jealous before, had he?

He looked away, glancing into the kitchen. Virgil sat on the side with his legs swinging back and forth, and Patton stood between them, his arms wrapped around Virgil's waist. They looked happy, which just made Logan feel awful. Then he looked at Roman on the sofa with him, shuffled all the way to the other side, eyes fixed on the tv screen, not even thinking about Logan. Which just filled Logan with... rage.

Logan stood up and stormed upstairs, pushing past Remus and Janus and, in doing so, brushing against Remus' hand. He loved it. He wanted to reached down and grip Remus' hand tight, twist their fingers together, but... he couldn't. He ignored the concerned stares from the others as he went into his room, slamming his door shut.

~*~

Logan tried to research more, but all the stuff he could find was on abstract emotions, things that didn't quite make sense and Logan couldn't just do. So, he decided to try a different strategy. From the parts of the research he did understand, he had gathered that people tended to be physical with those they found attractive, so perhaps if Logan made himself appear more attractive, the other sides would be more inclined to perform physical acts with him.

What was it about a person that made them attractive?

Logan tried to think about who he found attractive, but that proved to be difficult. He then tried to think about who Thomas found attractive, but that wasn't much help, as Thomas himself didn't look much like any of his celebrity crushes. Logan supposed he could always shape-shift, but that seemed... wrong, manipulative, like he was tricking the others. No, no, he needed a different approach.

Maybe he needed to be more like what the others found attractive?

Humming, Logan grabbed his recorder and left his room, heading down into the commons. An interview would be a good idea, valuable to his research. Who to interview, though...

Patton was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. None of the others were in sight. Okay, Patton it was.

~*~

Interview One. Date: July Seventeenth. Subject: Patton Sanders.

Uh, do you have to-

The recording is important evidence for my research, Patton.

...okay. What exactly are you researching?

I can't tell you that, or the data may come out false. This needs to be unbiased.

Alright then. Be quick, though. I need to keep an eye on the cooking.

Of course. Question one: on a physical level, what do you find attractive in another person?

...

Answer the question, please, Patton.

Uh, I don't know. Everyone is beautiful in their own way.

Yes, but is there anything specific?

I don't know. I like people who can make me laugh?

...that isn't a physical quality.

Well, the 'physical qualities' don't really matter that much. I mean, I guess there are some people I find prettier than others, but really it's the personality that matters more.

Hmm. Interesting.

Why are you asking this?

I told you before, it's for science.

Do you... need to talk?

No, Patton, I'm-

You look rather pale, are you okay?

I- I think I'll end the interview here.

~*~

That had been a complete waste of time, Logan realised. Personality? How was Logan supposed to change his personality? He could easily make himself more physically attractive, it was fairly simple to alter one's body or change their hair style, or, in Logan's case, shape-shift into the perfect man, but... changing his personality in general was a lot more difficult.

And... it got him thinking, sent his mind to places he'd rather not go. Was he really that undesirable? Just because of the way he was as a person? Did Patton rarely give him affection because he just hated him so much?

Something wet dripped down Logan's cheek. Frowning, he looked up, but saw no signs of a leak or any water above. And he wasn't sweating or anything, so...

Was that a tear? That didn't sound right. Logan had never cried before. And he wasn't sad, was he?

Perhaps he just needed a different test subject. Chances were, Patton was just an anomaly. He must be able to get more concise, useful data somewhere else, right?

~*~

Interview Two. Date: July Eighteenth. Subject: Roman Sanders.

Can we make this quick? Thomas really needs my help with this new video idea-

Of course, I only have a few questions. Firstly: what do you find most important, appearance or personality?

Uhh... that kinda depends? Are we talking about what I look for in a romantic partner?

...sure, if you want to think of it that way.

Well, appearance obviously plays a big part, although if I don't like someone as a person I'm not going to get in a relationship with them, you know?

So, what you're saying is they're... equally important?

Yeah, I guess.

Huh. Alright, second question: what do you find physically attractive in a guy?

Oh! Oh, there's... actually a lot, there. The eyes are what I first look at, usually. And the hair. Oh, and muscles! Big strong lads are great. But not, like, aggressively muscular. Like, a soft side is nice too. Fashion is a big thing as well, I guess. Like, guys in crop tops? Amazing. Tanks tops as well - it's the arms, I think.

Interesting. So... a fit person?

Sure. I mean, it's not super important, but like if someone clearly frequents the gym, they've caught my eye, y'know?

Alright. Thank you. Uh, final question: what do you find attractive in someone's personality, if anything?

...hmm. Well, someone who shares the same interests, I suppose. Y'know, someone I can talk to. Good humour. Confidence.

Confidence?

Yeah. Like, I like it when a person knows what they're doing, when it seems as though they aren't afraid of anything.

Oh.

Is there any reasons for these question?

No, no reason in particular. Just... for science.

~*~

It had been several weeks since his conversation with Roman, during which Logan had been working out every day, using Roman's old gym in the Imagination, mostly running on the treadmill and lifting weights - weights more often, as Roman had stressed the important of arms. He'd also talked to a couple of the others, who had essentially given the same opinions as Roman - in particular, Virgil had gone on about how a sense of style helped, and Remus had explained more about the muscle situation.

Nothing much had seemed to change, though. Logan had attempted to change how he presented himself, even taking off his tie some days in an attempt to make himself look less serious. He had considered investing in some crop tops, but couldn't imagine himself wearing anything not tucked in, so that idea was quickly abandoned. Then he thought about stealing some of Remus' tank tops - and even had, briefly, only to discover that he just looked uncomfortable, plus he had begun to smell like Remus which was certainly less than desirable. He'd even tried walking around shirtless one morning, but that had only earned him a couple of weird stares, confusion, concern.

He'd experimented more and more with his appearance, changing his hair style every few days, wearing different coloured contacts in his eyes, even wearing makeup a few times to see if that did anything. But still nothing. The other sides still kept far, far away from him, just like they always did. He didn't understand what he was doing wrong.

It did occur to him a few times that he could just ask the others to give him a hug. Patton would probably comply, even if it was just out of pity. But then that wouldn't prove anything, wouldn't change anything. And there was always the chance that they'd say no, and... Logan wasn't sure if he could handle that. He already suspected that the others thought he was undesirable, but hearing it would be different. Strange, he'd never been afraid of rejection before.

~*~

Date: August Fifth. Subject: Patton Sanders. Objective: physical affection.

I am aware that this is a bad idea, but it is pivotal to my research that I at least attempt. Worst case scenario, Patton explains that he's too busy, and we never have to speak of this again. Best case scenario, I finally get that 'hug' that I've been... craving? I believe that's the word, although I will make a note here to look it up later. I am now approaching the kitchen, where Patton is preparing dinner alone. My recorder will be placed in my pocket, as holding it may make the experiment more troublesome, I hope the audio will not be too muffled.

Oh, hey Logan!

Good evening, Patton. I'm...

Are you alright?

Yes, of course. I'm just- doing that experiment still, and need more data.

Oh, of course! Do you have more questions? I just put our food in the oven, so I have time to talk if you want to.

Um, it's- I don't really need to ask any more 'questions', per se, just...

...what is it, Logan? You look nervous, do you-

I'm fine. I- [deep breath] Would you be willing to engage in... physical contact, with me? A, uh... y'know-

...are you asking me to hug you?

Yes. If- If that's okay with you. If not, that's fine, but it would helpful for my research. Although I- I can leave, if you want me to, of course. It's- I have enough verbal data to complete the experiment regardless.

...

Logan, can I... Can I ask you something, instead?

Uhm, yeah, sure.

What exactly is your experiment about?

...

Logan?

I have to go.

~*~

Logan laid in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and hugging himself, clutching on tightly to his shoulders. He couldn't stop himself from crying, and he didn't know why, didn't understand what was going on with him. It wasn't as though Patton had rejected him. Just... maybe he was beginning to realise just how stupid this whole experiment was. It wasn't as if he could force the others to like him. He should've just asked in the first place, then... then maybe it wouldn't have gone this far.

He didn't understand what he was doing wrong. He'd tried everything he could think of, but nothing worked. He'd tried every combination of different appearances, tried to act differently around different people - more confident in front of Roman, more sensitive in front of Virgil, more friendly in front of Patton. Still, nothing. Nothing had changed, and nothing was going to change. This had all been a waste.

Logan took out his recorder and listened back to his logs, to the interviews, to his two am rambles, trying to figure out if there was anything that he was missing, any detail he'd forgotten about. Then he moved to his laptop and scrolled through his document, checked through all of his data, all of his calculations, but still couldn't find a single thing wrong. Perhaps he just needed to admit the fact that he was undesirable, unloveable. There was nothing that could change that, nothing that could make him better.

This was fine. It wasn't as if he needed it - he'd gone on this long without it before, he could cope with never having it at all. Couldn't really miss what he'd never had.

~*~

Date: August Seventh. Subject: ...I'm not sure yet. Logan Sanders, possibly? Or everyone. We'll see how this goes. Objective: ...I don't know.

I haven't left my room since the encounter with Patton in my last recording, although have been communicating with the others via text. They have asked me to join them in the commons for a talk. What this is about, I have no idea, but I will record it just in case, for future reference.

...

Logan!

Good evening, Patton. (I am now sitting down on the couch. All five other sides are here, and they look... concerned?)

What are you doing with that?

I'm just recording this conversation for future reference. You know, the experiment and all.

Yeah, about that. I- We'd like to talk to you about that.

You... would? (Patton seems to be taking charge of the conversation, but the others are all staring at me, intensely.)

I- I did ask the other day and you didn't respond but... what is the experiment about? We're... all a little worried, in all honesty.

(Interesting.) Why are you worried?

... You've been acting weirdly recently, Logan. You have to admit that.

(He's not wrong. That was a fear when I first started the experiment. Perhaps I should start again.)

Logan, can you stop talking to your recorder and just... listen to us? Tell us what's wrong?

There isn't anything wrong. I told you, this is all purely for science.

What's the experiment about?

I... (I'll have to start the experiment over again anyway, as it so clearly failed. New test subjects with therefore be required. Due to this, there is nothing wrong with telling everybody now.) I realised that... out of all six of us, you guys seem to come to me the least for acts of physical affections, if you come to me at all, so I wanted to understand why, and attempt to change myself to better fit to your standards required for wanting to participate in physical relationships with others. I... was attempting to make myself more 'compatible', I guess. More desirable.

...

...Patton?

...

Patton, are you crying? Did I say something wrong?

...Logan, can you turn off the recording?

~*~

Logan sat in the middle of the couch, with the other five surrounding him, engulfing him in a 'cuddle pile', as Patton had called it. It was nice, he decided. Warm. He wasn't quite sure what he was meant to do, but was grateful for the warmth of skin to skin contact, for the safety he felt as the others wrapped their arms around him. Why had he never done this before? Was it that he never wanted to, or... was it that he never asked?

Patton had tried to explain that they all tried to keep their distance from Logan because they thought that was what he wanted, that he'd be uncomfortable with hugs all the time. Logan had tried to explain back that, yes, in the past he hadn't quite understood the appeal of physical affection, but had since began to 'crave' it, to want it more than anything. Patton had asked why he hadn't just asked the others to hug him, and Logan had answered that he didn't know how to ask, or didn't want to sound desperate. Then Patton had reassured him that there was nothing wrong was wanting to be touched, and that he didn't need to be afraid to ask for it if he needed that. He'd told Logan that there was nothing Logan needed to change about himself - they all liked him just the way he was.

The experiment had been... successful, in a roundabout way. He'd achieved physical affection, at least? Although all that research had been for nothing. It wasn't as though he hadn't learned anything, though. He learned that... it was okay to ask, it didn't make him weak or pathetic or desperate. He wasn't undesirable. And the others weren't going to let go.

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #janus sanders #remus sanders #platonic dlampr #touch starvation #my writing #my fanfic

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