A chance to miss

‘What an author planned to do, or thought they were doing in producing a text is one kind of information we can gather about a text, but is it often unreliable, and it is only one kind of information amongst other. We make our own judgments about people, and do not simply accept that they are what they think themselves to be.’ (Stephen Bygrave, Romantic Writings, p.13, Open University Press)

Last line of that pretty much sums up what I want to show in my thesis.

Open Library is worth checking out if you're ever looking for something to read. As is Classic Reader actually.

***

The soft sounds of summer wrapped around them, a fragile cocoon envolping them even as they drew apart. Not far, never far. A hand lingered on an arm, thumb circling pale skin. A ghost of a touch like the ghost of breath on a cheek. Whispered words that caress the shell of an ear. There is nothing but sensation. An unscripted moment in a world of expectation and routine. We don't believe in fairies, and all our deaths are foretold. Yet the heavy air blankets the moment, allowing that cocoon a chance to grow, shield, and prolong. For a second, life is gossamer and silk, instead of the soap and water of childish bubbles from a carnival wand. An enchantment that lasts until dawn crawls over the horizon, one day to be found again, like silk patterns pressed between the pages of an old and worn leatherbound book. The night's heavy with promises and the wind bristles with memory, and somewhere, sometime, there are lovers dancing in the rain. So we dance in flights of fancy.

***

Yet all is well; he has but passed
To Life's appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourners will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn.

Now then, who's going to make me some coffee?

Music: So what - Pink
Mood: Annoyed