06-11-2018, 06:18 PM
AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT
"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."
[align=center]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGSThe 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."
Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]
