And they might have froze before that noose got to them

[sovay]

All night I dreamed about dying. Every time—I was shot once, bleeding out; another time, I had some kind of wasting illness—I woke up instead of never opening my eyes again, but whenever I fell back into the dream, there was a different death to go through. Some of the circumstances, waterspouts, unmoored islands, shell-like crusts of uninhabited buildings in the middle of cities where I've lived, might have made intriguing story material if I hadn't been distracted by the endless iterations of mortality, none of them opera-clean. Today fails auspices.

Comments

[zdenka]

Yipes! I'm sorry to hear it.

*looks around the room for pleasantly distracting objects* Um, would reading a draft of a Swinburne-inspired poem about Utena make you feel any better? (It's okay if the answer is no.)

[sovay]

Um, would reading a draft of a Swinburne-inspired poem about Utena make you feel any better? (It's okay if the answer is no.)

It wouldn't hurt me. I just can't promise any useful feedback: I have never seen Utena.

[zdenka]

Then I suspect it would be surreal and make no sense. Much like many other things associated with Utena. *grin*

My brain is even more scrambled today than usual, but I think I meant it as a sign of trust: i.e., you can look at my draft if you want to, even though I usually don't let people see things until they're absolutely finished. But it's rather like a cat leaving a dead mouse on the doorstep: this is what I had to offer at the moment, rather than what you necessarily want. So instead I offer my sympathy and wishes for better dreams henceforward.

[sovay]

So instead I offer my sympathy and wishes for better dreams henceforward.

Thank you. Send the poem anyway. I don't mind surrealism.

[zdenka]

Well, if you really want a dead mouse, you can have one. :-) Poem sent.