Reality is harsh to the feet of shadows.
May. 19th, 2009 10:11 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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estdeus_innobis[Early afternoon of Wednesday, October 14 (day 136)]
[Miskatonic Café]
Finished with Reaves and with Underwood and came home late last night, and spent an hour scrubbing the last of that dull tang of wolfberry and corpses out from under my nails. No work today, and Iago and I awoke late morning and wandered down to Main meaning to go by the Miskatonic for noon, and was listening light to the words in the street when their meaning trickled in.
Voronin, they said. Burnt before anyone could save it, they said. A little ways outside of town, they said, and strange standoffish woman and one or another said madgirl and that was when I gathered my thoughts up into my throat and took Iago's hand and turned around, walking slow back down Silk and not noticing any of it passing.
Well, then.
Well, then.
I've... no mind for how to take what might be. Trying to tell myself that the odd lifting weightlessness within me is a plainer dizziness like to sunstroke, not the feel of slipping out from under something, things are not can not be so simple so kind... I will not hope. I will not hope.
I took Iago home and I think I wept a little, but there's no sorrow in it. Lay with his arms around me afterwards and his breath in my hair and watched the sunlight paint itself along the walls of our room until I remembered he had to work today, and insisted he go and not worry. And without his arms around me I couldn't keep still, was up and around and scattering myself trying to keep from being giddy, fluttering in helpless motion until I pinned myself down and worked on giving it sense. Turn to what I'd meant to set out, the draw and pace of the calm and common day. Was planning to read a book from the library, the shapes of silver and salt and ash in wards and blessings, and I go out and I'm down to the Miskatonic afore realizing I've left it back in our living room. Light uneasy smile to myself and I get some of Tulzcha's coffee and sit down by the window. Leaves all the colours of Verdi's beers and whiskeys are collecting in the corners of the street, and the sky's clear and cool. Fine time of year, all quiet embers shading down to ashy grey, and I find my hands are yet shaking a little.
I am holding back hope like someone trying not to breathe in the smoke of a fire. Must not, dare not, let it in.
[Open to Dorian and Valda, and Lucien]
[Closed]
[Miskatonic Café]
Finished with Reaves and with Underwood and came home late last night, and spent an hour scrubbing the last of that dull tang of wolfberry and corpses out from under my nails. No work today, and Iago and I awoke late morning and wandered down to Main meaning to go by the Miskatonic for noon, and was listening light to the words in the street when their meaning trickled in.
Voronin, they said. Burnt before anyone could save it, they said. A little ways outside of town, they said, and strange standoffish woman and one or another said madgirl and that was when I gathered my thoughts up into my throat and took Iago's hand and turned around, walking slow back down Silk and not noticing any of it passing.
Well, then.
Well, then.
I've... no mind for how to take what might be. Trying to tell myself that the odd lifting weightlessness within me is a plainer dizziness like to sunstroke, not the feel of slipping out from under something, things are not can not be so simple so kind... I will not hope. I will not hope.
I took Iago home and I think I wept a little, but there's no sorrow in it. Lay with his arms around me afterwards and his breath in my hair and watched the sunlight paint itself along the walls of our room until I remembered he had to work today, and insisted he go and not worry. And without his arms around me I couldn't keep still, was up and around and scattering myself trying to keep from being giddy, fluttering in helpless motion until I pinned myself down and worked on giving it sense. Turn to what I'd meant to set out, the draw and pace of the calm and common day. Was planning to read a book from the library, the shapes of silver and salt and ash in wards and blessings, and I go out and I'm down to the Miskatonic afore realizing I've left it back in our living room. Light uneasy smile to myself and I get some of Tulzcha's coffee and sit down by the window. Leaves all the colours of Verdi's beers and whiskeys are collecting in the corners of the street, and the sky's clear and cool. Fine time of year, all quiet embers shading down to ashy grey, and I find my hands are yet shaking a little.
I am holding back hope like someone trying not to breathe in the smoke of a fire. Must not, dare not, let it in.
[Closed]
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