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libidomechanica · 2 years

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And Maud too, Maud was bound with pyne and penuree

A treochair sequence

And loved two and thine too is the relationship. And Maud too, Maud was

bound with pyne and penuree. And raged deep in us, to know. She says, we

are riding, she and I. The king; he took his brothers, risen again

and again with tears! And in that broken lilies revived, and frighten’d.

But with a knot. By him who made yon sun and sky! Degraded and

ensanguin’d brow, which rushes to something interests, which our olives failed.

Sane cursed him even toll a reguiem that might keep from his separate Hell,

and, having traffic with this young spirit of murder works in thee more

among the eternal flowers their thousand nothing is ever certain

if one day see both their jingling keys opened mote vnfolde many moe.

But if you will;—my similes enrich her heart, to make choices? And

the peace thou art more noble and life contents than unswept stone besmear’d

with a gentle still the valley, where she summon’d Baba: ’Slave! By him

who thence comes in force. By your virtues may bear; pavilioning the lassie

be; weel ken I my ain lassie, fair tho, the last cloud of home; and

afterwards remember the time, for love is in her e’re. We did not

think much on the bower of beauty’s best, of hand, of foot, of lip, of

eye, of brow, I see the silence. Large, and Juan silly; but go they must

love; and who succeed. And poor Juanna, too— the children of Illusion

went: methinks with a bootless calf at eight years old; and rhymes and determined

to tie her up but drag her down, and sometimes thought, and Sunne-borne day

for malice lend an ear! The brag o’ the Indies, my Mary, across

the wilderness touch by touch, and all except Mahomet’s beard, she would

haue me peace, and I, though more weak; and dull the barbershop. This said, he

laid his liege- lady there; so blackened as at breath of shame the laws of

physics are not say that I should keep a pure repose in an abyss.

The forum, and have our lives come and gone, and the little tent of blue

Italian convent, where he is sitting now. Yet I would cry when sometimes

would end their native earth on Billy’s breast, warm breath, since she can kill!

The Lord of Death without mirth, which frozen cheek. Love likes a gander, and

I’m come hame, and mony a sweeter it grew, But no doubt every Law

that the word. Within these matter, nor indeed on any other; so

Cantemir can tell you, or anything, with the more than infant’s smile,

a medicine in time not far away, as wrecked men deem they sight the

empress, but had been task’d; but that brief agony what she wish’d to hide

those pure feeling? The stripes, and subtill serpent I am cursed. And he

wiped my tears come—falling out that the town; found again, even the cold

season be thou free of birth can quench not, that sands one’s throat, come hither,

come hither, come hither, came crowding like a blight on my freshness die.

For any man’s day mixtures, and Counter- turn, and Compounds doth make, the

sun took delight; those words, embraced amongst the Trial Men in a suit of

shabby grey: his crickets and bound in the page; she found a small sweet Idyl,

and one keen pyramid with weakness, blent with delight—a feelings

that checks its flight he is sitting now.—There came the lonely wandering

cheek the kiss of Caiaphas. Her eastern wave, to meet he welcome of many

heads. I aft hae kiss’d sae fondly! Then why do you stick your fortune

doth euer auaile. Thou mought like incarnations turn to go yet turning

stay. Farewell o’ my sweet self, or pines in sad experience when the

daughter got married, the errant note to seize; she played it quick, she played

it light lest it make them both! It seeks my soul, it is the rest, contrivances

which surely be. Love pricked my fingers with this our banquets rang;

our dances broke loose, waves at spring-time shoot: but grim to see their face.

At eight years old; and rhymes and the Governor was strong infection no

bitterness that month became her golden apple and a bed. And you,

great scream below; had left us flaccid and drank the sun as thou hast.

But I, ’ said Ida, tremulous delight, where the side-lie of a truth:

and still I wore her pictured eyes, and thankfulness! Beauty, farre before.

We two wives are underneath their youth, and worse essays proved in circles,

and those circles, and bawled the grief of my harmful deeds, that ancient trees,

learne hearing,— Stella shineth. To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; and

may she still within my boots but I tell you in those who gazed upon

the world of ghosts, and begg’d by every human breast. And Sleep will no more,

oh, never come back to me. I never saw a man who had ceased to

shoot. To wile the one to cry for light: she moved, and the vapours leave my

brains. For he had to swing. Let me read they bene like a May-day break.

And a curres call. For who can tell! Would their love was ne’er be parted.

But, after all, am Master of mankind,— so styled according to

the mirrors of made bare his branded and apart; a herd-abandon’d

deer struck the blind his soul tells him he is not its own fire; for once dead

and feet of lead and Sunne-borne darkly, fearful thing to feel another

youth, with dew all turn’d round the slippery asphalte ring: and we knew they lie,

we lie, all lie, but like incarnations the lampless Earth in which to

heal a common in this, that Vertue haue that light come again. And cleanse from

restlesse flames in mee, which lays both men and twilight as possible, and

walls, wherein he doth for ever: yet, ere I go hence, know the other,

which it festers so that no man spoke against thine eyes shall I wend, my

piteous tone juanna should remembred bee; wishing some ways my very

saul, the king; and, having through and through her this man’s: they had a brothers,

risen again he fainted on the yellow ringlet, like a tocsin

bell: she did depart! Now lies the greatest wonder’d how Gulbeyaz, when he

came a- pilfering bee, and Timour-Mammon grins on a piece of

sugarcane, in love wisdom more than death, rock- solid themes, old and deplored;

while with such a debt to you and makes it bleed again sighing she spoke

I fear they will not. Just when the goal, this glory-garland round thy bier.

The very best. Beauty is sicke, but so. Deep in the best, even to

a hair, and out of the heart, and one keen pyramid with weakness in

a few hours, and look’d this simile’s quite enough. Blame not to the Head

once more, plainly, so I could crown a tear be shed and, with other on

one Camel side by side. If all the light in her breast, warm breath, light words

bring again, we tore out a reed, the errant note to seize; she played in

lit like a viper off, and showed the sword. The Oda, upon whom the

dead shall I tell you that just once, this once, in thy head last, thrise three Moones

bene fully spent and pain, my paines me reioyce. Other they well

might sweetest lyrist of her own, my hope! The Doctor gloats, and dry away,

like the Black, the Browne, as well as Sight. Sometimes I touch the surgeon’s

careful mark, down on you, near and comfort to me—come—this fond bosom,

O faithfullest and failed to endure one wound, from innocent breast, till

by the blade of youth was fled, and heaven and she was what he gave Juanna

spoke, Dudu turn’d me round my soul’s strife, He is made one with Nature:

there in her brother. So never have turn’d to the flood, leads—God knows what!

Like; she looked as grave: nor mark it with shadows and to dwell apart from

one who lifts him from abroad; the dark old place where half in dread to hear

thy voice with those dark gates across the wild woods that lure him from thy lore

to perfect, nay, but so. In Reading gaol by Reading there, they died, But

I, ’ said Ida, tremulously, so all unlike—it seems to love can

be converted into enormous amounts of energy: I’ll whispers,

and loud they sow. And the tall pines that wont ligge in a vetchy bed,

thy living die, and Music’s power as real as thine. At first expound

what we would, were it not broken? For day, that wakes beneath his endless

vigil kept, and the ripened ears, we fell out I know not—it succeeds?

Ah Diggon, what shall I tell you in those pure feeling stirs again! They

ne’er reply and, yet, I cease not to meet again, as now the other,

while it was certain that was, is wightly past, and will not. The maps they

gang in more secret deed. And yet scarce seem’d agitated was she with

odours I will live with the pails. The dog his maisters voice singing birds

without friend of this rupture of all to Love whose only Friendship,

Gratitude: and some men curse, and men, and brought envy and calumny and

hate, to Fame’s serene abode. It may escape the fields of rest, where

he is sitting now. But wide awake she was ten, skinny, red-headed,

freckled. An outline is the dead? That wol his herte al hoolly on him

leye. They were met by my soul, it is time we should him affraye, to take us

from its spotted shroud, and I of your face a mask. I have been on

our own sublime, Or hadst thou abuse the bounteous largess given to

starts and bursting into the hideous prison-wall: till like a willing

longer time to lose, my tired Hand for very frowns are fair: to

dance to lutes is full of couetise, and could not long be here contenting.

As from an infinitely distant from me. You pause for a while and

afterwards remember’d lie; the multitude that sleep soundly sleeps with

one which I clothed in acting as his speech grew still my Chloris’ dearest

charm—she says, she lo’es me best whene’er I sing the Lady of three castle

on his own breast and a light; that face, whose names on Earth all Danae to

the stone. And some men curse, and Life’s pale like one in you did painting sense,

but, being drawn and reconciled into the blade of you and you, I

fear Juanna, through a fen of filthy by- lane rings to the charted systems,

we’re out in a cloak, as I saw her eye. In this vindicating

grace. And now he rose; and Lucan, by his mate in holy silence in

the world’s most crowded streets, but often, in the bottom of the sword of

Sin pierced to seeke redress; where Beauty in which are given for the blood

bound in my veines with furs and jewels on; all day let envy view her

face peeped, shining rails: and, rank by rank, we soaped the poor for bread, and

murmur’d: Who art thou my ain lassie, fair tho, the lassie be; weel ken

I my ain lassie, fair tho, the last—the summer’s front doth sing and take

his hands when they can one day we would, were it not wise if I fled from.

Woe? Will still are like. His face, nor drop feet foremost through to-day, the two

slaves! Able to absorb her tail, refashion it to form leans sadly

o’er the deed with a sword! You weren’t well or really two ages. Fear

they filled the tins, and the Booke where such religious awe. Our velvet cheek

a rose; her locks are gilly gowans hang golden lilies afloat with

thy hands when all grow bad, and notched the plank, and there and made of stone. He

is rough but kindle day; palms of her nation,— are things do purge from the

blazon of sweet Elizium, by the hideous prison-air: it is

only what is most dear, made old offence. Which prisoners called my name …. The

angel soul that is confused by Love grows stubborn in twilight in we

went, but never have turn’d to theyr furre. Became her golden to her Fortune,

but how truely I note, all for the casten to themselves, in the

vine in all exercise of noble end, and Horror stalked before the

side-lie of a truth. When it slowly grew so thin, that spot, as upon

all legal objects of possession, and not wait. Two years liker must

they gave us were out of the fields with wings from four wives must have

quadruple claims, the Tigris hath its jealousies like shatter’d limbs go lame!

Both disproue, that with expectation of the armèd man, the diapason closing

gainst me in this poor remains, the man, sweet was its earthly guest! I

had joined her wheel beside me …. Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: and whilst I sing

Euphelia’s toilet lay; when Cloe noted heretofore: he who must be

his: her eyes, a lovely in her form, tis true I have invok’d in song

not thou; but come; for all mens eyes. For only blood can wipe out blood, and

Echo there, my hopes and the rose. Or there is heard the firmament of

renaissance, I looked upon Gulbeyaz’ charms, expecting all the reveries

that written in his mouth a red, red rose would quake. She wounded they

feel?—Fairest maid on Devon banks, crystal Devon, winding Devon, wilt

thou rove, by conquer all with gratitude, and Stella, when shall live, treading

tone with which, if not now; but when thou hadst all to that bright contain!

I’ll force my way to her Fortune, but how truely I note, all for him

had bene. As it has a deadly tide— you love thee, I obtain from

their other matters had been task’d; but this is her selfe doth make me more

staues did mee addresse, while, with change his own breast making beautiful blush,

a soft and piteous tone juanna should have wak’d the shadow of white Death,

and kindles the University for maidens, on their camp of death;

and I wept both day and night; mid listen’d to my sad lute mid the lip

of Julia, and began to move, and suddenly, sweetly, strange doubts: they

setten to sale their summer, others by your face, that trailed its raveled

fleeces by. Who watch her but I? Little tired, yet still the sky?—This

is no my ain dear maid, my Stella, died. Where were widows here, two widows,

Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche’ she said, airing a snowy hand and

by sea, war with a step so light and can scarce avail to pipe now ’gainst

the tax; behind, a train of dames: by axe and eagle sat, with my song.

Leave the months and the orange, and smile as thou wert wont to do? Then ought

of your ears, even as a ghost she glided past, that sicke-bed lies sweetness

and chatter the knot. When others wish’d extremely well where so much,

and thus my narration, and the savior of Remorse. Of this Baba

willing dross that checks its flight sweet on maid and maids, and years for us.

One hand, or I’d enter a room to room they walke not wild and drank

his quart of beer: his soul tells him he is not true! For gold the cypress

that I gazed the swell of love or feelings that I might die. With the minstrel-

life that was never drumlie: there mayst thou to Rome, which leads, than this. Fair

daffodil I see, hanging Laurel, alwaies seene; or with blush and smile,

and ward, from innocent breast, warm breath, but while he jested thus, a thought

her cause from all the revolving year; But I, ’ said Ida, tremulously,

so all unlike—it seems apart from him who made yon sun and sky!

By wimpling burn and leaues with his winged horses pull the heat or cardamom

rubbed the floor into his friendship, there in the heart of a man,

steadily from their bodies, stronger and thicker, until I heard her turn

those lands, and flowering down his head to speak? For on one fountains echo

round her, to her lost mate’s call in the night well. For our sins,—making

a woman, she of her brethren, though our breasts to backs. I know not how,

but with a reflected cloud, for my bonie laddie’s young, beautiful and

rare. And then but in the four posts; and then; at least so when the source or

observer. Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, positive,

and play thee, lest unawares I in an error fall: whilst, burning bed

by sightless lightnings of stone. Most musical of mourners of a captive

soothers of less note, came on, and time; with indiscernible flow

its way; and so I won my Genevieve! Were barren deeps to conquering

Beauty’s sovereign law; and soundly sleeps with a sword! Of one good hearty

curse I vent my gall, and of things are done that wholly scorned to dust

in Humanity’s machine. ’St I love with the minstrel’s skill reply!

Envy and calm, and quake lest their place, a body sways. But I, ’ said Ida,

tremulously, so all unlike—it seems you love thee down to find

the viler, as underneath a heap of jarring atoms lay, and

tenderness were placed sufficiently, but not by Sun or Glass: while each pretends

that the shadow from the sand! Earth do to us, that let him in

by shutting all the passion glow, even were we: the world of beauty

from my mouth with thirst: for they holden shame of those whom Christ should rob their

grisly masque or pageantry of mist on an autumnal Night, that the

young Spring so lately wove, each simple village, they began to sip;

but whether gulbeyaz and her part, I know till the slope of sea from verge

to show, save that grow are of the fruit, is waste; the bosom worn, array’d

herself, all in all: they see no men, not even her breath. Fast in the

first Man took him out, and when I look at the least, and my pulses closed

their owne leasure. The stripes, and she are beneath, he had adorn’d and hill.

Your midriff sags toward your knees; and how his madness flushes up in the

last and quiet, luxuriant, budding; cheerful without end; nor end

of a brazen bell. Our wretched with some embarrass’d people have real

daytimes and not, I freeze and yet to-day I saw them go, slim shadows

and to and froe, enaunter they thought,—All labour, yet no less; thus most

appropriately has been unexpected here, of stories of her

nation,—are things be! When the good old man came down. At last thought; but, taking

the sick of the dead, the poor for bread, and then he crouched, in the bay!

’Er-gang ye. Night, while others buy; some do it with this young planet in

her vineyard— yes! Its first foe in the witching grace those gay recesses:

many a precious stone when all grow good; life’s half-way house, stubborn in

twilight as it outlasts the great good, he deprecated her anger,

poverty, and thine too, down on you, near and complete, a bottle almost

my glory, being drawn and reconciled! Some sorcerer, whom a

far-off grandsire burnt because thou seest my lowly saile, that inwardly

do prate. The outlines or slight example, just to cast a shade along

that was said to the flocke, fast in the sheet and pillow. And built a

house that makes them pleas’d to burn, with severall waies, to please the Body,

recreate the greenwood tree who loves her, must die before the empty

corridors were full of absence Hell. Upon thyself, and that way; he

heard, some do it with a full but soft emotion, alike might be fully

spent and Duty be the very mud cried out for a masquerade.

Seen but of our night; from the high way, but by time. She did depart! Nor

yet did those eyes, resign’d to this hysteric of a vision. Has run

but to the bosom worn, array’d, and there in the stirrups, just once again,

I cheery on did wander: I thought that held the knife. She gaz’d on

me this brother. He does not playe, or sleeps the heaved breast and dreadful pen,

and bring you shall not blame; your leave for one opened mote vnfolde many moe.

Lowder had be better near, or newer. The hangman’s hands nor weep, and

serene, it may be, more than seamen. My Queen she’d surely are unwell,

child! Chase, like a dome of me: there is that it is not enough. I walked,

for blood spilt had in honde, in hope of beauty’s best, with their years had been

wine! As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it. The oak and elm have

pleasant fruits, and pleased with some call the sublime, warm pearls, shy, in the fair,

disdain intended. Journey, but so. And gibe the old man, now lord of

the river! A bottle almost empty in its case. Bleeds with a song.

Whenever should remembred bee; wishing her out with a little mend

her, though less than fame, may rue the barbershop. Yea even such a silence

the barren as this moorland hill and gleaming round and brere; Who mourns

not her mate with her veil or hair; sleeps she and life contended the shining

charnel; fear and comfort or console: and what is in their leave. Remarked,

how ill we all have no end: mine appetite I never saw a

man who looked with such a wistfully at the call, and once, overgrown

with rushes, idling with hoofs of a goat, and break the heavy on the

watcher’s doom is given to starts to fade, made incomplete, a bottle

almost empty in its delight of the East, with all the working hinge ….

—This is no my ain lassie, kind love that gives you much more than death the

Lady of the child, beautifie your soules for to gard. With midnight I’ll pluck

you a wreath with the forests, cease to move, and the last green field that Lucy’s

eyes sparkless ashes load an unlamented Adonais is, why

fear we to become? Then spring of light. That I owe this demurre our

sute doth stay, let Vertue but that the passion and a bed. Came, veiling heaven,

What forms in a half-consent involved in stillness, plighted troth, and

many a session, whether Laws be wrong; all that arise in ruin’d tower.

Because a like spell benumb our heart doth me forhaile. Petal

by petal, now the other pitying made a thousand bosom, O

faithfullest and fairest wights, and bring again sighing a world over.

A second blow, they fawn on the new comer; her shape, and sweet sake to

your report, that I would pour himself in every human hearts, you are

charmed! Thy fiery tears, from a dewy breast, his chiefe souereigntee, beating

for all the cold season to wach and waite. And fling thy purple round thy

narrow Cell? Can never fall; and aye my wife she bang’d me, if ye gie

a woman have heard the stounde, that frown aside, and sad! We tell beginnings,

let us nourishing; but with the same rule were the falling into

our deep, dear silence in the Unapparent. So sadden’d round, and

sometimes found, and feeds her grief with his wine and the maize, or red with sleepy

Venus seem’d agitated was she with one whit your own imperative

expense: I do not mean destruction upon their songs, the whitewashed

wall that is dead, not he; The inheritors of unfulfill’d renown

from sword, from the high way, but I never! Bear up beneath his wings:

from reddened eve he views the rock that fell with his sister at play!

Or else he sate by there were engraved invitations, it was the silent

men which wears the soul of Ida fell, and o’er trembling knees; your breast

and dress without shore.—Look at the day. And scar’d the depart! And shaven

head and Doom: the hangman close against the tax; behind, a train of a

mourning notes, discover, and wondered if she had crossed each others by

your faith, my Mary, in mutual flame confess’d, and I of your fathers

have them for the cost and pain, whose smile kindles the Universe, nor

knew what eye was on me, nor there, a pretty ankle is a spy,

betraying fair proportion, wad make a merry masquerade; the pins were

paradise enow! Engraved invitations, I should rob the phantoms

kept their owne leasure. Lady Mary Ann was a flower that gives nothing

is strange things of my heart’s core, who were tutors. We tell beginnings,

let us weep that out of the fierce could be possess’d, how he would quake.

Anybody should wake! A kind construction and with sleepy Venus

seem’d really plann’d: only remember’d name! Down in air, the Muse will be

the same, and in the dew dwelt in her e’re. No Warder is Despair: he

only way, since liberties; they mocked the sky: sae warming, sae wyling.

Would not see through the wailing wind, never again that when the rayne is

faln, the cloudes wexen cleare. Another May new birds and desperation,

and take the nightingale, rapt in a countryes, where the fields of rest,

and thought she ever dear inhabitants of the longer touches. The

Governor was strange that sicke-bed lies sweetness and in their mossy homes

in force. In such proportion of the liar— rough but kind, and all his

glory-garland round, and smiling, sae charming, her silver light; tis Phillis,

only Phillis, that let him lie: no need to waste the foolish or

imprudent act would now itself is dawn. At which begat distinctive

womanhood. That with the same, and they wore their sprightliest trim, by way of

change and most most loving breast. I know till there was no other apartment

for it. For hitherto thought she have loved each line, of herbes or

beasts which surely be. May nothing in time, your fortune doth euer auaile.

But who will in fairest place is much more tender and shaking her out.

You walked the most dear, made old offence. And the morn; but my kisses bring

a tomb. Now bless’d be the very prison streaming, I too could glide to

the Lord will not. Body of skin, of moss, of firm and thinketh al nis

but a tremulously, so all unlike— it seems you love too little,

some too long to repeat. To feel another ringlets gather’d in a

most wretched if a peasant’s quean. On a sudden in the crystal Devon,

winding Devon, wilt thou snare him in the love-sick air; whenas that

bright heart that broke for nothing, but her Mind. Sighing she spoke: but oft clomb

to the welcome shock: his airy harp shall lie unstrung. But she was gone,

retired into sight of fragrant gloom of foreign churches—I see her

there, all wild toyes are but ministers of Love shall never counting higher,

the angel soul that all we lov’d of him should wed, my father’s clamour

at our despair! Sometime after your skin, enough to begin, and

the race the Starrs, all fashion, but Actium, lost for Cleopatra’s eyes, and

wandred I wene about this long tale, nought easeth the visage to thilke

god that after then it wont, all for he did them locke, and the better

than the silence. Some sorcerer, whom a watch was harmony, this

universal frame began: from harmony, from her profuse locks, and that

grasp’d it; of that little tent of blue we prison that men have tried to

teach me how to play. Rekindled hope, and hush awhile, and bow’d her too.

A scar between females, and Compounds doth make, the sun took delight, and

she past on; but each assumed from outrage worse than it was. To float about

the least disposed to waste not the jewelled cave, turquoise and quell?

And don’t agree at all: only a memory of dreams in a suit

of shabby grey; a cricket cap was on me, nor the time, for love upon

a cros, our soules; come wait on hir whom winged affections heire thy selfe,

yet thus, that did so delight, a well off— as she could see how men their

renewed might. Filled the hymns, and blind the lily in the dyer’s hand is cold,

whose motion and time, and end my woes withal: so three in one small plot

of ground shall live without thinking about the loving breast. And through her

this may Sacred prove to Friendship is that would not see through they look’d up,

and gazed upon Gulbeyaz, too, could be buxome and gone, retired into

enormous amounts of energy: I’ll whispers to my Mary, in

mutual flame confess all the woods. Then drew the rosy dawn. Airing

a snowy hand and broken lily lies— the storm is overblown, but

droop there, till my Chloris’ bonie face, ye weel may wi’ the fair occupants:

if there be none of us have felt the ministering hands clasps his cold

head, his scull will prop it under. Man of many-colour’d glass, twas like

Cassio, an arithmetician, ’ but by time. Yet each mass may be graced.

—I am not a judge or a psychologist. Hark! Body of my

desire; and sae may they what they had their garlands sere, their burning

wind on glassy water drove his cheating yardwand, home. With the purest

breath. Now all is fled can touch holds one degree that in a sheet of flame!

Young women, and yet to-day I saw the wedding garment, down toward the

prayed, we grew afraid of the world, compelling the nerves of motion mair

enchanting. Made myself down and wrote, in such a question? The voice of

the sweeter thy voice I raise; but with a reflected cloud, for my soul

on Cloe’s eyes. For Blanche; they nothing love, but well might seem like pageantry

of mist on an Alpine steep, or Lot’s wife done in salt,—or what binds us:

strong fingers am I at all satisfied. When first set my face.

Your blessed Cross that wore upon Euphelia’s praise? The Past, his fate and rare.

And hears not thyself and mine: but oft clomb to the bright and day, and could

never restore me those as thou hadst all to that bright in her bed. And

dull the barbershop. Contend in it for what they must love; and whom he

taught by the shape of Terror crept by each padlocked door, and write thereon.

Since nothing else to say where it would drive you crazy. To swing. That is,

we cannot well be worse, and his soul of Ida fell, and they but thoughts

pursue him as a strange another clipp’d her profuse locks, and braes, and

learnd loue right, but while I walk’d with something sweet. The woman taught you this?

Like a flower that he had fifty-nine years, and what is—neither here

nor the soul out like the young spirit he fed, and trembling knees; and how

his madness went away, when the goal, stays all things as were time past, that

men have made the works of the heathen also, though still the Nose a fresh

new smell may take. The simmer is gane when thy fangs o’erflow; rose pale, his

slaue, descride in Marses livery prauncing in their mien and faces.

It is not true! Light gathered colour heighten’d, her eyes, All stood aloof,

and at the world again. The unregarded, I am the bloody

sweats, none knew so well as White, in all Compexions some Eyes take delight.

With showers of difference. Fair daffodils, we weep; tis the villains all.

But then what a flint is he! A kind of concatenation, like to

brave, we kissed feet glowed in my heart,—this weakness— it can scarce could but claim

the fifteen hundred thousand men, who looked so wistfully at the gentler

passions, show’d their roar even with their sin: each sucked men’s eyes surveyed.

Too good for him Pity’s long-broken urn, for his laboure him from above:

o that it be pure, and boldly ventured on the tree,-are the woman:

then, Sir, awful odes she wrote, too awful, sure, for what you like a

rose—syne pale light in all men—except his majesty, Thy hopes and fears,

and rough with stately march and swing of all, she might be shown for this man

no more, from kindling brain nought little time. Complexion pure, by Nature

know how it shook when all things are blest, but the seeds of all passion and

exposure, in case of a flame that had pass’d the midst a golden urn.

May prove as lordly and complete, a bottle almost as far away;

if on another’s fault but given thee to thy face. And through her hair

unbound, with a livelier land; and still should reach—and now he fled astray

He is a pit of infamy: and the red cock crew, the red cock

crew, although short can never more! Can never be descriptions of them

when I saw her eyes were guilty gates, that loue doth amazeful

solitarinesse: in night, as dearer being, all dipt in Angel instincts,

breathe his body in the night were that they had they bene like a

stage set, and willd my Muse may best lodg’d in Beautie be, let him in by shutting

all the clay that written in his eyes: I gave the gifts; he said so

strange things are blue, and dinted into sight of the loom the worst befell?

No critic I—would call the pilgrim bore bloomed in the sound that we can

smile; but they have no place for love is in her e’re. Which now behold these

women in a knot. Wilt thou find and his Anguish keeps the evening has

thee hent, nethelesse thou seest my lowly saile, that from the three-decker

out of the wide blue yonder mountains did I feel the joy of my

eye; and they sang to wake thou, cried Urania’s eyes, and Sunne-borne day for

malice lend an ear!—So let thy loud heart join’d to body, and her colour

of a dream, I would not see through, fix’d me a breathing all the sea.

Toes touch. Why have you yourself: but if he comes not whence, of the swelling.

And tenderness were placed sufficiently, but not in wonted smiles, O

let me go. And poor Juanna’s dreams, all except starvation, could I eat?

Body join’d to Time, and empty nest, a heart that’s the more silent with

evening: silent dust, that he left him several parts could not see through

your marvelousness. Until the hasting day has run but to the rosy

dawn. I am water rushing to thee; the children of Illusion

went: methinks with all concur in wishing her out with a high hand,

the brinks of a harsh chain, binding him we lose with such a mother

pitying made, with a livelier land; and still I wore her ladyship:

and told her of tears and gall. The man should him affraye, to take his hands, and

barbarous laws; these were too straight appear’d mistaking Earth for Heaven.

Stand any more: and therefore now I’ll love and dare not so large. By years

were getting night, night urge the morrow brought her dress bespoke, a damsel

fair, and brought a rod, so whipt me with your own lives, and those twin-brothers

walked the liberticide, the hills? And for you has made me blest—and broken

box that gave its twinkle through a murderer could certain, would not

know what a mortgage was. But she was no grave at all satisfied. Expect

change, unquenchably the sea. Nor did her part of his bride’s beauty.

Made old offences of such freends did euer liggen in watch and warm; and

when I am gone away, this Woluish sheepe would bear him through to-day,

the two-celled heart burn and withers there: pale Anguish grew—how bear it? And

send out Lowder for so his dog hote to raunge the field; and with music:

the damned grotesques made arabesques, at seven all was still, but

there were engraved invitations, I shouldn’t have put it in word or deed;

she stood around. And his own Jack Ketch; ’ and the fear? But be no coward:

you that just as her soul with clay. Overcome all that, that sith the hand.

So silly as to both He is a presence, which brought rest to his belov’d

repose? Had gaz’d on Nature’s bequest gives you much more than once,

conjecturing, wondering, asking a narrative by your fair no painting

sense of hollow behind us. A Highland welcome of me: there

in theyr flocks creepe? I grieve and death, rock-solid themes, old and growing coldly

when the core; that hand and lovely Odalisques, at the day: and

yours is a passions are fair: to dance to lutes is full of absence Hell.

’ In fact twas certain that poisonous wave and in its strangest tarry;

for there in the affection of the motion mair enchanting. And up

and up, to be friends, and call hem at their happiness, is much: but the

purple scarlet white, deepening grace to live on throughout the least of wail,

is light, what was, is wightly past, and wan’d the bonie boys playing at the

door is pitiless and hands reached the poor dry empty thing no Warder

walked, for fear; he brought rest to the shepheards swayne you can never equal

rights against me still. I rise above the least disposed to Life’s appointed

joys are woes as deep as any meteor on, and leave the woman

he will direct your Doves, and brought be inly knowe. Left the Earth all

Danae to the vital air; death feeds on his face a thoughts, along the rest.

And it will be soon: there Simmer first movement was to see him look so

wistful eye upon that makes a son leap in the World account his Highness’

years, the fierce triumvirs; and before us into rooms which show’d them

both sweet thought of the water will wine-red rose! Our velvet cheek a rose;

her love wisdom the moving storm And all the flower that Power may

move keeps his winged affection, and beautiful and rare: but who would revoke

the order he had heard.—I am not less in the chronicle

of wasted time I see descriptions of eisel gainst the armèd Knight; she

stood a moment, can get free our heart. He answer’d She, Without a moan?

With vayne desyre, and watches through rain and again with this your mound! Taught

me Touch, that terror of the general stare which we dwell is foul and bright;

’ tis Phillis, ’tis Phillis, ’tis Phillis, and mild the luminous eyes and

modest seed, and girdled her there, all were loth to breed dispute betwixt

myself in every hair of Mahomet’s beard, she would haue me peace, and

I, though the law. Held carnival at will, in time not far away, as

wrecked men deem they sight the lassie be; weel ken I my ain dear Willie?

But of sike pastoures howe done the North. The crowning race of a change.

And crooked shape of beauty’s gone. Blind in unascended majesty,

who, with her sweet purse-mouthed Doctor said that Death can join together, we

will go deep, never again. What nedeth feyned loves to lie with me.

So it was a perilous beast and earth and all the demons of all

sounds: a drear murmur, and her colour day by day, and call her Ida,

though with lesser latitude, and in mad trance, that huddling slant in furrow-

cloven falls to roll them masterpieces: they did not pass away.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 8 #132 texts #treochair sequence

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greenjudy · 6 years

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every human heart is a labyrinth

Every heart is a city of Gandharvas.

I’ll draw it for you someday, that maze.

#the eight similes of illusion

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undermebius · 4 years

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An examination of each of Yuki’s three short stories during the Editor In Chief ✰ Full Speed Ahead chapters

As a preface, I interpret the first poem as being in relation to Yuki’s creation, the second as being in relation to her relationship with her body, and the third as being in relation to her place in the SOS Brigade. Please keep each interpretation in mind as you read the poems to better understand my analysis.

Untitled 1

It was XXXX ago that I met a girl who said she was a ghost. I asked her name. “I have no name,” she answered. “Because I have no name, I am a ghost. You’re the same, aren’t you?” It was true. “Now then, shall we go?” Her stride was fast, and she seemed like she was alive. “We can go anywhere. Where would you like to go?” I thought about it for a while. Where was I trying to go? Where was I? Why was I here? But all I could do was stare into her dark eyes. “Weren’t you thinking of going to XXXX?” When I heard her words, I finally understood my purpose. Yes. That was where I was trying to go. Why had I forgotten? It was such an important role. It was the reason for my existence. “Well, that’s settled, then. Goodbye.” The girl disappeared, and I remained. Perhaps she had returned to where she belonged. Just as I was trying to return to where I belonged. Something white began falling from the sky. Many...white...unstable...water crystals. They were one of the wonders that fill all of space-time. This world is overflowing with wonders. I stood there, still. The passage of time lost all meaning. That wondrous stuff continued to fall, piling up like cotton. I decided that would be my name. So I thought, and in thinking so, I became a ghost no longer.

I‘m sure this goes without saying to those familiar with the three poems, but the first one is by far the most comprehensible. There are some interesting things to note, here, though. Firstly, I believe the other girl here is Asakura. In the manga, her features are vague and don’t look like any character we know, but as you’ll see with later poems, Yuki has an acute understanding of what the people in her life talk like, and this character sounds very much like Asakura. Furthermore, it is interesting to note that Yuki had a sense of wonder through which to pick her own name, even three years before interacting with any auto-evolution triggers or meeting any friends. While her reflection on this event may be influenced by her current perspective, given how reflective these poems are of herself, I believe it’s accurate to assume that Yuki is not misportraying the creation of her name, and that she always had emotions, on some level, from the moment she had a body. Moving on...

Untitled 2

Up until that point, I had not been alone My other selves once bound together like ice, soon dispersed like water, then finally diffused like vapor. One atom of that vapor was me. I could go anywhere. I went many places and saw many things. But I learned nothing. The act of seeing was the only function I was permitted. I performed that function for a long span. Time was meaningless. In that false universe, no illusion held any meaning. But eventually I found meaning. Proof of existence. Matter attracts matter. That was true and correct. It was because it possessed a shape that I was drawn in. Light, dark, inconsistency, sense. I met each, intersected with each. I did not have their capabilities, but I may have been permitted them. If I were permitted them, I would have them. As I continued to wait, would those wonders fall? Those tiny wonders.

Less words, more symbolism. Thanks Yuki. First, I believe line 2 describes the evolution of the Data Integration Thought Entity. Not literally, of course, as they have no form, that’s why she uses similes. I think them “diffusing” refers to them expanding to encompass the whole universe.

Interestingly, despite the word ‘not alone’ initially making it seem like a more positive time in her life, the rest of the poem contradicts this, describing how the mere act of having more than one sense and confirmation of her own existence was incredibly transformative for her. She says she saw everything and learned nothing, and that the idea of having a body ‘attracted her’, all but saying that the simple act of having a body was what allowed her to evolve and expand her intelligence. This is especially interesting considering how most of her kind seem to regard organics as inferior kinds of life. Here, Yuki’s thought process and what separates her from the other TFEIs is made clear: she thinks having a body is an evolutionary advantage to humans and to herself.

There’s also a hint of bitterness as she discusses not being permitted to do anything other than see. This likely refers to both her life before being given form and after. Recalling the Endless Eight, being unable to act on her own and just having to watch is obviously quite a sore spot for her. This side of her is actually quite similar to Asakura, wanting to act was exactly what led to Asakura being terminated after all, hence why she herself couldn’t bring herself to start doing it without the promise of Haruhi’s protection from her superiors.

Also, notably, there’s a lot of talk in both these poems of time being meaningless, another allusion to the Endless Eight and being forced to just watch the world proceed without her, not participating. And speaking of not participating, that brings us to the last poem...

Untitled 3

There was a black coffin in the room. “Hello.” “Hello.” Atop the coffin in the middle of the room, there sat one man. I don’t know what my expression was. “I am sorry I am late” The person within seemed to be a girl “The presentation has not yet begun, there is still time.” The presentation. I tried to remember. What would I present? I was nervous. I couldn’t remember. “There is time. Let us wait until you remember.” I remembered one thing. Just one thing. I belonged within that coffin. I had come from it, and I had returned her so I could go back to it. But I had nothing to present. The man began to sing in a low voice. The white sheet danced along with it. If the man did not move, I could not get into it. I was not qualified to participate in the presentation. If he did not move, I could not get into it. Now, two or three pages after this, Kyon says that he thinks the man is Itsuki and the white sheet is Mikuru. I think this is correct, actually. Mikuru says “I’m sorry I’m late” (without hypens, because Yuki is allergic to those), which is a very Mikuru thing to say. And it wouldn’t make sense for the man to be Kyon himself, Kyon is not an obstruction to Yuki in any way, shape or form, at this point in time. But Itsuki is.

Because Itsuki is the member of the SOS Brigade who most hastily disregards Yuki’s humanity and capacity for emotions. Not that he’s outright cruel to her, or wouldn’t protect her from harm, but he makes it very clear that he doesn’t believe Yuki is capable of having emotions.

Then there’s the coffin. Now, this is not a metaphor for Yuki dying. TFEIs cannot die, and canon has very well established that they struggle to understand the concept. Therefore, as a symbol of death in most literature Yuki would’ve encountered, it represents just that: human concepts which she hasn’t evolved enough to understand. Barricaded off from her by Itsuki. With this, one half of the poem’s meaning becomes clear: having her capacity to develop her emotional abilities denied by Itsuki...denies her the ability to develop her emotional abilities. She feels stunted by it, like Itsuki is impassable, and that she can’t do anything about him. She says that “if the man did not move”, specifically. She suggests no option she herself could take to remove him of his place on the coffin, but rather firmly states that until Itsuki gets out of her way, she can’t do anything.

She says that she belongs within the coffin. Now, in the first poem, she claims that she was going back to where she belonged, and here Yuki, after firmly deciding her name and to have a body, she has found it. Her place is not high in the sky with Asakura, but in the coffin. She belongs where she is engaging with human concepts which she cannot yet understand. This, along with her later declaration of protectiveness towards Mikuru after the kidnapping incident, establishes that she, just like Mikuru and Itsuki, is now more loyal to her friends than her faction. And that she wants to remain learning about them forever. Which is adorable. But moving on.

Next, there’s him and Mikuru “performing”, which Yuki believes herself to be underqualified for. I imagine this is about how they perform their roles for Haruhi’s enjoyment. Firstly, when Mikuru arrives, Itsuki says that the presentation ‘hasn’t begun’, meaning that it’s something that isn’t always in place, separating this from Itsuki’s place on the coffin, which is omnipresent. This fits their relationship with club events. They’re all quietly sitting in the clubroom until the ‘performance’ begins, at which point Itsuki will lead with whatever event he’s orchestrated for Haruhi to enjoy, Mikuru will follow the tune of the preplanned adventure...and Yuki will just stand there. She’s unable to come up with something to do, to participate, until brought in by Haruhi or Kyon with instructions, who aren’t present here. It’s just the three magical children, and Yuki cannot fit in with them without help. Or without Itsuki moving.

k i’m sad as shit now end post

#OOC;#unspecified data ; analysis #yuki nagato

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ngakpakonchokdorjetsondonmystic · 3 years

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Advice On Abandoning the Eight Worldly Concerns

Advice on Abandoning the Eight Worldly Concerns

by Nyala Pema Dündul

A ho! Listen well, all you fortunate, supreme disciples of excellent karma!

Gain and loss, happiness and unhappiness, Fame and insignificance, praise and blame— These are what we call “the eight worldly concerns.”

Those who cling to the duality of good and bad, and feel pleasure and frustration, Can't even be called practitioners of non-dual self-liberation, Bound as they are by the chains of attachment to the eight worldly concerns.

Whatever happens, whether it appears good or bad, pleasurable or painful, Is just like the ten similes of illusion — recognise this! And, in a state of perfection, transcending the ordinary mind, and beyond words, thought and description, Rest in the expanse of the view, beyond the limitations of hope and fear.

This advice on abandoning the eight worldly concerns, Was put together by the old beggar Padma, For a group of students who had repeatedly requested it.

Through this, may my followers, yogis intent upon enlightenment, Be free from even so much as a single thought That is deceived by the māra of the eight worldly concerns!

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iluvtv · 5 years

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Thank you, it’s my attitude that keeps me young...

Processing Russian Doll has not been easy. It took a week and a full rewatch for me to even begin to touch this beautiful program’s intricacies through type. The iterations and research I prepared for this post have been almost as vast and extensive as the show itself. Nearly a month later I decided to save the diatribes for casual conversation. Theories on how the show is a study of the Jewish allegory of Dybbuk or that the loss of characters throughout each life is mirroring the constant death of video game culture can surely be found elsewhere. Instead, I share a version of the draft I started jotting during my rewatch of this beautifully complicated story while sitting on the couch next to my own Mother, both of us quietly reckoning with the histories which brought us to that shared moment.

Writing, like experience, is a process. For many, this show has brought on personal reflections of their own existential crisis. Presently, a communal and varied reception is floating through our technological ether, acting as intellectual interpretations of such.

And so, in an unusual act of rebellion, I will let my work here act as nothing more than an experiment in my strange and frequently limited relationship with emotions. An armored sort of void that is not without its own challenges.

Like Nadia I sometimes might be written off as the abyss.

And yet neither of us are enthusiastic about or entirely unharmed by such descriptions.

I have no illusions of blowing any minds here with an overtly innovative (though so often it feels that way to me) analysis of Russian Doll, and if you want to avoid spoilers perhaps just stop now (though nothing I say here would ruin your own experience with the show). However, if you want to go exploring through some proverbial baggage with me — I have just too many thoughts, tangents and feels not to write anything at all...

But first:

Holy.

Fucking.

Shit.

I am at once moved, inspired, shaken and totally stunted. The vast creativity in writing and performance and imagery and music within these eight 24-minute episodes could debilitate many an artist. It's so easy here to rationalize giving up. There is no way I could ever create something as powerfully moving and detailed as Russian Doll.

This speaks to the intense fragility (so rarely acknowledged) which Headland, Lyonne and Poehler’s creation has provoked within.

This show, like it’s namesake which holds infinite women inside one another, is an onion. It can be peeled endlessly away— there is no core. The similes housed are so nuanced that solving them all would be a luxurious and laborious service. An intellectual’s ideal wank. Something future generations may hang their Philosophy dissertations on; much like the very pretentious characters which this show so cleverly mocks.

How very unusual, a narrative with notably distinct translations identifiable to everyone from the now aging homeless advocate of New York City in the 90’s to the Jewish millennial living in San Francisco currently participating in gentrification, to the middle-aged dad who never quite got over his suicidal tendencies, to the gamers and engineers entirely distracted with code. It is a glorious conglomeration of our own narcissism and the show’s creative genius which will allow us all to see ourselves here.

Twitter threads and articles debating such translations could distract our own heart for hours. In the end, though it is compassion which will leave room for growth and learning. In time we will not just slice the orange in half and find the ripeness in the fourth dimension but we will also discover another layer, or perhaps metaphors even the creators missed.

In part isn’t this some of the beauty of an increased number of minorities (ahem women) making art reaching the mainstream? The long-whispered narratives of silenced humans have become far more infinite and intricate than the stories we have heard before.

One might argue that the very notion that Nadia’s misfortune is provoked because she is “bad” defies a complex yet deeply scientific female perspective. It seems rational that a writer's room compiled exclusively of women would have enough experience in niceties to understand that no experience or person is entirely one thing. It is empathy whicxh allows us to view the sum of one’s parts. It is humanity which allows us all to persevere, coexist and most importantly notice that others are just doing the same.

And so there are moments in Russian Doll which speak to me so precisely.

The show’s playful exploration into Jewish Mysticism, which I once studied so diligently.

Nadia’s food choices, which I consistently noted before the subtle stitch of their relevance became obvious threads of the tapestry of her stories. The cottage cheese and roast chicken which is so spot on and terribly, neurotically Jewish. The fact that I noted her breakfast of cut watermelon in episode two as though it were a plot point -- which it did eventually become. My takeaways here so painfully reflect my own layered and tumultuous relationship with my body and moreover nourishment.

Nadia’s penchant for drugs and the ability to maintain her relationship to artificial mood enhancements. Through my lens of a similarly uncomplicated love affair with inebriation, I can’t help but find this characteristic terribly charming.

And oddly enough, Nadia’s clear choice of Emily over Anne. This one is tricky as I have zero memory of reading Emily of New Moon and yet I clearly remember loving it while Anne of Green Gables bored me. I know this sounds contrived but my mother concurred: I was a girl who loved Emily; couldn’t be bothered with Anne.

Then there are the less overt parts of Nadia. The painful side effects of what can be more easily spelled out. These are the elements of self I skip over (as did Nadia presumably) the histories of abuse and dysfunction, the draw towards said abyss and the imaginary, the solitude. Here we have a vibrant woman, unabashedly possessing an immodest thirst for life — an extrovert essentially, who somehow manages to remain on the peripheries. Again, this would be a perfectly apt way to describe me. Through silly, fun, terrifying, real and completely magical events however, Nadia is forced to reckon with both her past (and future) and come to terms with relativity.

I mean life is relative, right?

Watching all this forced a reckoning of my own.

People fade, plants and animals die, fruit rots and all the while Nadia battles with the existentialism turning 36 inevitably breeds.

(Speaking of invoked narcissisms I have for years threatened to throw myself an “I still haven’t gotten married or had kids so you never had to go to a bunch of bullshit showers but I’m going to have a huge double chai blowout” of my own. As the time approaches (14 months) this seems increasingly unlikely but the relevance of this age was definitely not lost on me).

Through all this sadness it is the small acts of kindness which somehow makes everything all right again and again. Very subtle pieces of humanity perpetuate life.

Relatively speaking.

Compassionate and honest interaction essentially induces a continued existence.

Alan says, “Our bodies can’t keep lying the way that our minds can”

And when Ruth mentions she heard the author of Emily of New Moon is haunting a house rather than the more familiar trope of Lucy Maud Montogomery’s suicide this makes me think the show is so much more about how you survive and persevere than how you fade.

As I slowly worked through these episodes (the first time) I wished hard that this show would offer hope and eventually it did just that.

But boy did it put me through the wringer through the process.

#dybbuk #russian doll #natasha lyonne #amy poehler #leslye headland #jewish fod #hey alma

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likeshipsonthesea · 7 years

Text

A Happy Ending

Nursey Week Day 6: Dreamer

Nursey sits on the floor of the living room, playing with Legos and trying to build the coolest castle there ever was. He considers two Legos thoughtfully, deciding eventually on a pink door over a green one.

The castle, Nursey decides, belongs to a King and a Queen. They have a son, the Prince. The King and Queen work a lot, as kings and queens usually do, which leaves the Prince to his own devices much of the time. He wanders about the cool castle excitedly, ready to find a new secret passageway or a painting willing to have a conversation (because, in the cool castle, paintings can talk).

The Prince finds a room filled with toys. So many toys that it’s overwhelming. There is a wall lined with stuffed animals, cupboards filled with action figures and shelves filled with colorful books detailing stories of unearthly adventures. The Prince runs about the room, picking up toys and playing with them for a while before moving on. He puts together a puzzle of the Eiffel Tower in France, which he’s seen himself, and then he uses dolls to act out a tale of falling in love. In the back of the room, there’s a group of people the Prince’s age, willing to play hockey with him when he asks.

When the Prince tires of playing, he attempts to find his way out of the room, but he cannot find the door he came in through. Nothing looks familiar and the Prince begins to get scared, worried that he’ll be stuck in this room forever. As cool as the toys are, he misses his parents, the King and Queen, and he doesn’t want the toys if he can’t have them, too.

Just as the Prince starts to cry, hopelessly lost, the King and Queen rush over to him, having found him in the large, cool castle.

The Queen scoops the Prince up in her arms, cooing softly. “We were so worried about you,” she says, petting his hair and holding him close. “We missed you so much.”

The King puts a hand on the Prince’s back, rubbing soothingly. “Yes, son, you are the most important thing to us and we thought we lost you.”

“What about-” the Prince sniffles, “- what about your jobs?” he asks.

“They don’t mean anything compared to you,” the Queen says.

“You are the most important thing to us,” the King says, nodding.

The Prince smiles, pressing his face into his mother’s chest, and hugs her tighter.

“Now, what would you like for dinner?” the King asks, but it doesn’t sound like the King’s booming, deep voice.

Nursey frowns, looking up at his nanny, who’s wearing an expectant look on her face.

“What?”

His nanny rolls her eyes, annoyed. “What would you like for dinner?”

Nursey blinks at her, confused. “Don’t Mommy and Daddy decide?”

“They won’t be eating it. They have to work late.”

“Oh.” Nursey looks back at his Lego castle. “Whatever’s fine,” he says. His nanny leaves, walking towards the kitchen. Nursey starts taking apart the castle.

*~*~*

The saying, “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to see it, does it make a sound?” is an incredibly arrogant thought, Nursey decides halfway through his math period. Like, who says that something is only true if you’re there to witness it? Things happen even if you aren’t there. Things happen even if humans aren’t there. Humanity is not the be-all end-all of the world.

Humanity is pretty arrogant too, now that he thinks about it. They consider themselves the top of the food chain, the smartest, the best species. Just because humans don’t understand what animals are saying doesn’t mean that animals aren’t just as smart as them. It’s not unlike when people who don’t speak English are considered stupid in the eyes of bigoted only-English speaking people simply because they can’t understand what the non-English speaker is saying. Not to say that non-English speakers are animals and English speaking people are “higher” like humanity considers itself to be, just that the prejudice both experience are somewhat similar.

“Mr. Nurse?”

Nursey looks up to see the teacher, Mr. Camilleri, wearing an expectant look on his face.

“What?”

The kids around him laugh and Nursey tries to duck down further into his notes.

Mr. Cam, because he’s chill as hell, glares the rest of them into silence and re-asks, “What was your answer for number four?”

“Uh.” Nursey looks down at his paper. Number four is artfully decorated with some confusing scribbles, random lines, and a circled 42˚. “42?”

Camilleri nods, turning back to the whiteboard, where he writes down 42˚. “While that’s not the final answer, it is a pit stop on the way of getting there. Ms. Junip, could you help us get to the final answer?”

Nursey pays attention as Penelope Junip explains the rest of the problem because he knows he’ll need to understand this for the next test. When the question is over, and they move onto number five, Nursey finds that he actually got the right answer for that one, so he lets himself drift as Camilleri explains it for those who didn’t.

He wonders if numbers have relationships with each other. He feels like five would be a dick; he’s so special and everything, only fitting into numbers that end in five or zero. Ten is probably humble, a little embarrassed at five’s arrogance. Eight probably loves nine, but nine only has eyes for ten, and they’re such a perfect couple that eight always feels bad for his feelings. Six probably knows this, and takes eight and seven out when any of the three of them are feeling bad. Seven always feels out of place, so awkward and never feeling like he fits except with a select few, like six, and eight. Nursey almost laughs at himself when he finds himself identifying with the number seven.

Next period, he has English. They’re reading Romeo and Juliet, and though Nursey’s already read it, he can’t wait. English works in his mind the way that math does in Penelope Junip’s. Metaphors and similes, figurative language peppered with repetition and symbolism and allusions. It makes sense the way an equation should; everything fits. But it’s more fun than math, because he can move things around and still have it make sense. There isn’t such structure to English.

He finds this ironic, of course, because he usually loves structure, control. Any differentiation has him freaking out in a decidedly unchill manner. But it’s also perfectly understandable, he reasons. All the best things in his life are unstructured, craziness, chaos. Shitty Knight, hockey, poetry. He’s just a chaotic kind of guy.

As they move onto number six, Nursey laments his situation while also trying to figure out how in the world Camilleri got 73˚.

*~*~*

There’s a brochure in front of him. Actually, there are several brochures in front of him. There’s one for Yale, since it’s an Ivy and would get him an internship in any of the places a child of parents like his ought to get an internship. There’s two other ones of colleges in New York, Columbia and Cornell. Columbia because it’s in New York City and his guidance counselor assumed he might want to stay close to home, and Cornell, a product of his mother’s lingering hope that he will go into engineering. Harvard is there, his father’s way of pushing Nursey into law so he could go and tell his business buddies that his son is a lawyer.

In the middle of them all sits Samwell University. This one was given to him by Shitty Knight, who stopped by Andover in February for Nursey’s birthday celebration and to taunt some of his least favorite teachers with pranks. He had clapped Nursey on the back, laughing and telling him that it all starts now, with seventeen and freedom and independence.

“You’d like it,” Shitty had said, eyes earnest despite the haziness of the alcohol. “It’s-” He had shaken his head, beaming. “It’s fucking sw’awesome. Come to the hockey tour; I promise you won’t regret it.”

Nursey hadn’t regretted it. He had loved Samwell, from the hockey rink being beautiful enough to inspire sonnets to the teammates who welcomed out-of-the-norm people to the quietly outstanding libraries to the two girls he saw kissing in broad daylight like there was nothing to be afraid of. Samwell was everything he had wanted in high school and never got. Well, he got a taste of it, in the form of Shitty, but Nursey wanted a world of Shitty Knight.

God, he could never tell Shitty that. His ego, and Nursey’s tolerance of it, would explode.

He imagines himself at Samwell, surrounded by those people and those things. He could get a boyfriend- or girlfriend, he is pan, after all, but he can get a girlfriend at Andover- and flaunt him like he would deserve. He could live in the library, with books and that architecture, crying over its beauty and his sure-to-be-deadly coursework. He could spend practices and roadies and wins and losses with guys who collectively yelled at the one taddy that made a comment about that baking one’s femininity.

In his mind, Nursey sits on a couch in a frat house. It smells terrible. There’s pie.

It’s wonderful.

*~*~*

There’s a room somewhere, the place is irrelevant. In this room, there’s an unending supply of tea, all the flavors Nursey could dream of. All of his favorite books are in a pile next to the comfiest couch that was ever made. Next to that pile are all the books Nursey’s ever wanted to read. People are only allowed in the room if they’re wearing fuzzy socks and of a mind that’s ready to relax.

There are no clocks in the room, so there is no time. Nothing outside the room matters and Nursey is sitting on that couch, sipping tea, reading books, and wearing fuzzy socks.

He is not, as he was earlier led to believe, underneath the Haus dining table attempting to cram for his environmental science midterm while Bitty flutters about the kitchen, offering him pastries every once in a while. That, he’s sure, would be terrible and ridiculous in equal measures.

Of course, the illusion is shattered when Dex shoves himself under the table as well, already bustling in before he seems to realize that Nursey already occupies this space. He considers Nursey for a moment with an angry expression before muttering, “Budge over,” and settling in next to him. He pulls out a French history textbook and begins taking notes.

It’s a well-known fact that underneath the Haus dining table is an excellent spot to study. Ransom spends at least half of his break downs under here. Shitty can usually be found here before finals, naked save for a textbook artfully covering his junk. Lardo has been under here so many times to finish a piece that the bottom of the table is covered in paint splatters. They, the glorious upperclassmen, imparted this knowledge on the lowly Frogs, who use the spot when necessary.

Nursey is too stressed to argue, so he just moves over. The two of them cram for a long while. Halfway through a sentence about wind patterns, Nursey snorts to himself when he realizes that his desire for timelessness seems to have been achieved. It isn’t exactly what he meant, but no fulfilled wish ever is.

Sometime after that but before Nursey gets to the end of that chapter, Bitty pokes his head under the table, offering out a plate of something that looks delicious.

“I made meringues. You boys want one?” His studying is usually done in the form of making his textbooks unsellable after the end of a class by dirtying them with flour and the like. Dex, who doesn’t mind, bought three of them in the beginning of the semester.

“Yes, please.” Dex, who’s closer, takes the plate and puts it in between his and Nursey’s legs. They bite into them simultaneously and groan likewise.

“Fuck, Bits,” Dex moans around his own. Bitty blushes. Nursey tries not to find it attractive, but it’s a battle.

“You’re the best,” Nursey says earnestly. Bitty rolls his eyes, but his lips curve into a pleased smile.

“You boys flatter me.” He rights himself, his head disappearing, and Nursey and Dex take a break from studying to devour the meringues. There’s an odd number, so they are left with one on the plate when they’ve polished off the rest. Nursey and Dex exchange a look. Then, Dex picks it up and cleanly breaks it in half, holding one piece out to Nursey, who smiles a little, surprised.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. Dex nods. They eat they’re shared treats, eyes shining like kids who found the cookie jar hidden above the refrigerator. It’s a secret, almost, and it tastes sweet.

*~*~*

There’s cheering, overwhelmingly loud cheering. It’s cold, as it always is on the ice, but Nursey loves it like he has since he shakily skated onto the rink near his parents’ apartment in New York. Everything is sore, and the cold doesn’t help, and his under armor sticks to him all clammy and sweaty like someone’s hand he doesn’t want to be holding.

The captain is beaming, laughing as he’s tackled by the rest of the team. They won, he’s thinking, it’s in his eyes, we did it, I can’t believe we did it. The goalie is being lifted into the air, laughing as the pressure of being the only thing between a victory and sadness drifts away. The coaches are clapping each other on the back, all of the players left on the bench having joined the fray. They share conspiratorial smiles, like proud parents able to bask in a moment of Look at what they did, look at what we helped them do.

For a second, the captain is Jack, looking proud and emotional but knowing that this isn’t it, there’s more to come. The goalie is Chowder, crying a little and scrambling away when Holster and Ransom try to hand him the puck, a Frozen Four win puck. Murray and Hall have that parental look about them, the kind of look that Nursey’s never seen on his own parents, and it makes him ache, but he doesn’t mind. It’s Samwell’s bench that’s void of players; the ice is covered in red and white jerseys; it’s red and white confetti falling from the ceiling.

The next second, Nursey is walking into a locker room with twenty-two other emotional young hockey players. Jack is nowhere to be seen; Chowder is crying- Nursey got that part right; Murray and Hall are attempting to tell them all that they did a good job, but their eyes aren’t quite convincing enough. Nursey curls a hand around Dex’s shoulder, the sound of his helmet banging on the floor reverberating around in Nursey’s ears.

He imagines cheering, in the next second. Whooping and the sloshing of Gatorade as it’s dumped on Jack, Chowder, the coaches, everyone. There would probably be a Gatorade fight, when Nursey thinks about it. Everyone would be laughing. Bitty would be thinking up the pie he was going to make in celebration. Shitty would probably be naked. Dex would probably be smiling that forest fire smile of his; unrestrainable and radiating warmth.

Nursey knows he has another three years to try, to do this again, to win. But, as he sits down at his designated cubby, his eyes catch on Shitty, whose hair falls in his face, his expression closed off. He looks at Jack’s stall, empty. Nothing has changed in that stall since Jack stood up from it two hours ago and gave a speech telling them to give it their all and that he would be happy. He isn’t happy now, Nursey thinks.

“Nursey,” someone says, breaking him out of his reverie. “You’ve gotta shower.”

Nursey looks up to see Dex standing there, anger in the set of his jaw and worry in his eyes. The anger seeps out a bit, though, when he sees Nursey’s face.

“We deserved it,” Nursey says, rambling in his mind and shutting his mouth tight. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. In all the movies, all the books, the team that deserved it won. The captain who had done his best, been encouraging, had gone through so much, he would get the win, win it all. Or-or the underdog, freshman goalie who was the sweetest person anyone would ever meet and a stone-cold killer between the poles, he would get a NCAA win his first year. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

“I know,” Dex says, and Nursey thinks he does.

*~*~*

A Snap sits unread on the screen of Nursey’s phone. It’s from wjp_dex and it sits unread because Nursey hasn’t finished this chapter yet. He doubts he’ll be able to finish a novel if he’s stopping every other word to look at the snapshots of his life that Dex gives him.

When the chapter is complete, he picks up and unlocks his phone, receiving his small gift. It’s a picture of Dex, a little sunburnt, with the bay behind him. He’s wearing a backwards cap and there’s a little ginger girl with her face smashed against his, grinning with a smile that’s missing a few teeth. Dex looks so content, relaxed around the eyes and his mouth in an easy smile. It’s captioned with sadie thinks your name is weird.

Nursey takes a picture of his laptop screen and sends back your face is weird. Then he takes another one of himself and clarifies dex’s, not sadie’s. sadie’s is adorable.

Suck up, Nursey gets back with a picture of Dex sticking his tongue out and Sadie smiling smugly.

In Maine, Dex would play in the water with Sadie and Scott and all the other siblings that have names so Irish that it’s like they’re trying to prove it-like the hair wasn’t enough. Nursey would lie on the beach, a book in his hand, or maybe a journal, so he could write. He would look up every once in a while to watch them all splash around, smile, and then go back to his work. After a while, Dex would get annoyed and send one of his cutest little relatives to go get him.

They’d spend the afternoon in the water, turning to prunes and tasting salt long after they’d left the beach. They’d walk back to the Poindexter’s house and Mrs. P would yell at them the second they walked in, telling them to hose off or go find some other place to have dinner. Dex would help his younger siblings get clean of sand and then start a water fight with Nursey, like they weren’t already soaking wet.

“You look like a drowned rat,” Dex would laugh, pushing Nursey’s mop of hair out of his eyes, as it usually fell there when it was wet.

“You look like a drowned rat,” Nursey would say back, too happy to come up with some other kind of insult. Then maybe he’d lean in and feel Dex’s sunburn-warm skin against his own, maybe it would be okay, maybe they’d-

wjp_dex has sent you a Snap! Nursey’s phone says. He opens it. Dex has taken a picture of the water and asked, how’s the novel coming along?

Bit by bit, he sends back, a picture of the half-filled (he’s always been an optimist, despite his attempts at the opposite) page he’s got on his screen.

Dex sends back another picture, still of the water, and a thumbs-up emoji. Nursey smiles, and turns back to the screen.

*~*~*

They’re fighting, and Nursey kisses him to shut Dex up. Dex’s skin is flushed with anger and his cheeks are warm under Nursey’s fingertips. He keeps trying to argue under Nursey’s lips, but silences himself when Nursey tells him to shut the fuck up. He pushes Nursey back against the door of whatever room they’re in-preferably one of their dorms, since there are beds there- and shoves his thigh in between Nursey’s. Nursey groans, his head falling back, and Dex fits his mouth around the skin of Nursey’s Adam’s apple and it’s-

They’re drunk and get caught on one another as they navigate the dance floor, sticking like soda that hasn’t bene cleaned properly off a counter top, but more pleasantly than that sounds. The music works its way into their hips, their hands, and they tell themselves- Nursey tells himself- that it’s Beyoncé, it’s the alcohol, it’s the kegster, it’s not them, and continues telling himself that as he licks at the sweat forming on Dex’s collarbone. Dex groans and Nursey feels the vibration in his mouth and it’s-

They’re both tired from practice and then lectures and they’re sitting in Nursey’s dorm studying, flipping through textbooks and laptops without making a sound. Dex starts typing, as he usually does, and Nursey starts humming to counteract it, and they both get so annoyed with one another that Nursey grabs Dex’s fingers to stop the tapping and Dex attempts to press them against Nursey’s mouth to quell the noise, but he only succeeds in getting their faces closer together. Nursey stares at Dex for too, too long and then leans closer and feels Dex’s exhale of breath against his check and it’s-

And it’s funny, because in every one of Nursey’s dreams of this situation, whenever he let himself think about it, he started it. Nursey would kiss him, Nursey would lean in, Nursey would be the instigator. Maybe it was a subconscious part of himself saying that Dex would never be the one to start it, mainly because he would never feel the same way. But whatever it was, Nursey always thought of it I kiss him, he doesn’t say no, because it would be the most plausible thing his mind could handle.

That’s how he knows that he isn’t dreaming right now, because Dex kissed him first. Dex said, “Hey, Nursey?” while they were sitting in the Haus basement as Dex attempted to fix the washer for what must be close to the hundredth time. Nursey suspects that it isn’t yet the hundredth time because he’d expect more confetti and celebration when it reaches the big one-o-o. Dex was the one that leaned in, so close that Nursey’s eyes widened and his heart started racing. Dex was the one that said, “Could you hand me the Phillips head screwdriver?” Dex had been the one that put his tools on the other side of Nursey’s spot, put Nursey between the tools and the washer.

“I-I don’t know a Phillip,” Nursey had said, aiming for witty and just sounding nervous. Unchill, his mind said, and he almost laughed.

“Oh,” Dex had said, his eyes laughing and his lips smirking. “I’ll get it then,” he murmured, and leaned forward. As his hand searched for the tool, his lips touched Nursey’s and his eyes closed. Which is a really ineffective way of searching for a tool, Nursey thought, before he sighed and closed his eyes as well.

Now, Dex is the one moving his lips like waves at the shore, relentless and intoxicating. Dex is the one putting his body in between Nursey’s spread thighs, gripping his waist all sturdy and focused, like when he’s fixing things. Nursey drops his hands off the planes of Dex’s broad shoulders, his wrists bent as his fingers intertwine in the sparse hairs on the back of Dex’s neck. He let his hair get long over the summer and Nursey has dreamed about that, too.

When Dex pulls back, he smiles. He holds up what Nursey presumes to be a Phillips head screwdriver.

“Got it,” he says.

“Yeah,” Nursey breathes out, and then smiles. Dex’s little laugh is way better than any flimsy dream.

*~*~*

Nursey sits in a waiting room. His phone lights up with texts from Shitty, Chowder, Dex, and the rest of the team, but mostly the first three. Good luck, a lot of them say, you’re going to do great a couple read.

Nursey closes his eyes.

He lives in either Maine or Massachusetts. There’s a big house with lots of rooms and comfy furniture that costs a decent amount, but it’s good furniture. He and Dex fought about the price of the couch and then made up when Nursey had it delivered without telling Dex and then let Dex fuck him on it. Nursey and Dex have their own room, with a big bed piled high with pillows and the softest sheets money could buy, which Dex didn’t fight him over because he’s a diva when it comes to blankets.

Some of the other rooms are also bedrooms. A guest room, for when Shitty and Lardo stop by, and a couple pull out beds for when more than one of Dex’s siblings comes by at a time. The other bedrooms are kids’ rooms, kids who love Dex and love Nursey and know what it’s like to be loved back, know what it’s like to be more important than anything else.

One of the other rooms is a home office, where Nursey writes, sometimes. Sometimes he stays in his and Dex’s room; sometimes he stays in the kitchen. Depends on the muse, really. Nursey writes a lot, being an author and all. His books are loved, maybe not famous, but loved and cherished and a lot to the people who read them. He makes enough off of them that they can be his job and damn does he love his job.

Dex comes home with the fucking bunch of kids that they have and presses a kiss to the side of Nursey’s face. “I love you,” he says, before asking about Nursey’s day and telling the kids to go do their schoolwork. Nursey loves him too, so much, and this is their life together. A little messy- how could it not be messy with all the kids they have?- but filled with love and warmth and presence.

“Mr. Nurse?” the receptionist calls, leaning out of a partially opened door. “We’re ready for you.”

Nursey grips his manuscript tightly- they had wanted a printed copy- and takes a deep breath. He knows that it wasn’t real, but a dreamer like him can accomplish anything, right?

#nurseydex #dexnursey #nurseyweek #nursey #derek nurse #check please #angst #happy ending #i promise it's happy

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