“It is a wise father that knows his own child.”

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

You're starting up and I'm winding down;
Ain't it big enough for us both in this town?
Say it's big enough for us both in this town.

When I was your age I thought I hated my dad
And that the feeling was a mutual one that we had;
We fought each other day and night:
I was always wrong; he was always right.

Friday, January 29th

My mood after seeing Gaueko was more sanguine. Sanguine, yes, after Gaueko's gift of flesh and blood, but most importantly of his soul. I can taste the meat of him on my tongue if I think on how I put my lips to his bloody stump, but beyond that I can feel his soul like a small star.

Our conversation has lent me enough calm that I will no longer pose a risk of immediate death to any man I meet, and so I shrug on the fleshsack that is the Kent body, frowning at the ease crease of it around me, and I go off to see my wife. I have a child to look to, after all, and a world of planning.

I stroll down Main Street, and a few people greet me as Mr Whitman. I smile and nod to them, hands in my pockets, and I agree to pass their best wishes on to Wanda. And then I push open the door to the Dormouse. A couple of ladies sit by the window sipping tea, and I smile at them and go up the counter.

"Wanda, my dear," I call out, unzipping my leather jacket as a man would after coming in from the cold. My smile, which the women do not see, is a shard of ice.

[open to Wanda]

“It is a wise father that knows his own child.”

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

You're starting up and I'm winding down;
Ain't it big enough for us both in this town?
Say it's big enough for us both in this town.

When I was your age I thought I hated my dad
And that the feeling was a mutual one that we had;
We fought each other day and night:
I was always wrong; he was always right.

Friday, January 29th

My mood after seeing Gaueko was more sanguine. Sanguine, yes, after Gaueko's gift of flesh and blood, but most importantly of his soul. I can taste the meat of him on my tongue if I think on how I put my lips to his bloody stump, but beyond that I can feel his soul like a small star.

Our conversation has lent me enough calm that I will no longer pose a risk of immediate death to any man I meet, and so I shrug on the fleshsack that is the Kent body, frowning at the ease crease of it around me, and I go off to see my wife. I have a child to look to, after all, and a world of planning.

I stroll down Main Street, and a few people greet me as Mr Whitman. I smile and nod to them, hands in my pockets, and I agree to pass their best wishes on to Wanda. And then I push open the door to the Dormouse. A couple of ladies sit by the window sipping tea, and I smile at them and go up the counter.

"Wanda, my dear," I call out, unzipping my leather jacket as a man would after coming in from the cold. My smile, which the women do not see, is a shard of ice.

[open to Wanda]