"In a morbid condition, dreams are often distinguished by their remarkably graphic, vivid, and extremely lifelife quality. The resulting picture is sometimes monstrous, but the setting and the whole process of the presentation sometimes happen to be so probable, and with details so subtle, unexpected, yet artistically consistent with the whole fullness of the picture, that even the dreamer himself would be unable to invent them in reality, thought he were as much an artist as Pushkin or Turgenev. Such dreams, morbid dreams, are always long remembered and produce a strong impression on the disturbed and already excited organism of the person."

The words rose and fell evenly, a steady stream, as Bastille chose a passage at random to recite. There was an Observer with them, looking intrigued if vaguely concerned -- that was more or less the look he'd gotten in the past few days, as the Clan tried to figure out if he was going to drop dead again. He wasn't. Well, he probably wasn't. Bast didn't care either way, and hadn't let it slow him down; he'd barely given it a day before he showed up in Rad's room again, ready for her next trial pack.

That afternoon, his thoughts were a quiet hum and he felt nothing but faint glimmers of social craving. The subtle craving for warmth, for contact -- he'd been without was so long, had pushed everyone away as best as he could, and with Rad's toxins running through his veins he could admit it on some level. He didn't quite feel it, but when this Observer sat next to him and started to engage him at random, inquiring about his book, he didn't scare her away. He let her warmth seep into his skin and entertained her, picking through random quotes to see what he could recite.

(Maybe she was only here to make sure he didn't drop dead again, seeing how he'd told everyone it was just an overdose, but he wasn't in the mind to care.)

"What's the longest one you can remember?" she asked this time, after he told her that the last was Dostoevsky. Bastille took a moment to consider, and decided on one that was not quite the longest but one that he preferred, frankly. Besides, it may very well be the longest, seeing how he had no direct comparison between poetry and pose.

“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die," he drawled, the words easy on his tongue, like he'd said them before. The girl looked a little intrigued -- a Biblical reference? -- before he kept going, the words deviating from their initial sound:

"I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge, long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.

"I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father, aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing tranquilly to his reward.

"I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul, than I was in the souls of both.

"I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him, fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place—then fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement—and I hear him tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."

There were few breaks in his monologue, except for the occasion indication of a paragraph where he gave a slight pause, eyes flickering slightly as he regrouped for the next one. The girl sat and listened to him, quiet, and when he finally finished she said, quietly, "Well, that's kind of sad, isn't it?" He wondered if she really cared about the sadness a fictional story carried, and shrugged, unmoved by the apparent sadness of his choice.

"Well, he did die, so I suppose it's supposed to be rather morbid. Or sad. Or whatever," he commented, attention fixating on her in a bit more of a focused fashion. He was a cross between comfortably tired and a bit too groggy, half tempted to just press against her side and take a damn nap. She didn't seem as interested in idle contact as he was, however, and he yawned as he added, off-hand, "Besides, you said longest, not happiest."

Bastille blinked, his vaguely too bright gaze landing on Luna. Luna... A slight flicker of something. She'd been avoiding him, and he her, for a few days -- but that was all awash in his apathy and the faint hum of some sort of upper in his system, convincing him that everything was fine and he was fine. The NPC smiled at her in greeting, but stayed quiet, evidently relieved to have someone else help keep an eye on him.

"Which? Crime and Punishment, the first. A Tale of Two Cities, the second. This," he placed a paw on the book he was currently reading, or at least had been before he started reciting things for the girl, "is the Metamorphoses." A pause at her question, and he actually laughed. When was the last time he'd done that? "Uh, yeah. I have a few different translations of it. I thought you'd seen my classics section." Another pause. Curiosity. "Do you want more? Classics, I mean? Didn't know you liked them."

There was a particular point where he reached his peak and everything hung in a precarious balance — so close to normalcy but not quite there. In thise times where he felt almost like he was play-acting: pretending to be the Bastille he used to be and should be, but as if he had forgotten how to do it just perfectly. When he wasn’t gone enough or the mixture wasn’t right, he was still caught in a state of apathy; and when he was too high or the mixture reacted in a nasty fashion, he felt too much at once or plunged even deeper into his demons. It was harder to find those moments where he almost seemed normal, but when they came out... he forgot.

Forgot the burning anger in his gut. The twist of vicious words on his tongue. The terrible person he was, lashing out because he was hurting and didn’t know how to handle it, how to handle his souls screaming at him. He simply looked up and straight at Margy and felt... nothing. Just the faint pull for companionship, for sitting with her and wine and being near her again because it’d been so goddamn long.

”Mm, yeah. It’s a classic,” he said, easy, words not quite slurred but not quite punctual. Languid, lazy, even — a slow drawl, as he contemplated. ”I like a good soulmate story, even if they never end up together.” Bastille didn’t seem to believe in much, but he did have a love-hate relationship with Fate — and he had always known her to be cruel enough for the concept of soulmates to exist, in some fashion. He didn’t believe they had to love one another or be happy, because Fate was cruel, but he believed you could be bound to someone so terribly that there was no rivaling the sensation.

”Like you and Suite, I guess,” he muttered aloud, a tangent thought as his attention drifted, shifting towards golden light and honey. A beat, and he blinked, bringing his unfocused focus back to her. ”Except you’re not tragic ones, I guess.”

His attention deviated, briefly, to Wren as the boy made an appearance. Ah. Socializing with newer members. Pretending he had a soul and that he was worth following -- or, at the very least, that they should stick around in the Ascendants because everyone else made up for Bast's failings. Excellent, excellent. He wasn't exactly the best at forging meaningful bonds, but he supposed that didn't matter when he was feeling almost happy and everything was hanging in a precarious balance of warm-mellow-good.

"Hi, Wren," he provided, simplistic, before shrugging. "I guess, yeah. Now it is. Where's that Korean book of yours? We can discuss its riveting lesson plans." An amused quirk of a smile, half there, though if his words came off slightly taunting it was clear he hadn't meant it in that fashion. He liked languages. And language learning. And... oh, right. Margy was speaking to him again, and his attention fixed on her, bright and intent.

"I don't think I ever bothered to look for an older copy," he mused, considering, "Never struck too close to heart for me." Though there was something dark and earning in Heathcliff that he supposed he understood, Bast had never lingered on it nearly as long as he did his classics or histories. Maybe he was self-aware enough to avoid reminders of his fucked up ways. "House of Mirth?" he echoed, attention caught by an unfamiliar but vaguely captivating title. He liked mirth. It was a good word and a good emotion.

There was a flicker of something there, and he was paying close enough attention to see it, but it was lost of him. Well, mostly. Liar, something in him whispered, if briefly -- but the thought came and went so quickly he forgot about it almost as soon as he had it, instead choosing to accept her words at their face-value. Wasn't it better to pretend everything was fine and normal, anyway? The drugs in his system seemed to think so. "Uh-huh. Exactly." Eloquent addition to the conversation, here.