#the parable of perfect silence

[clavainov]

The Parable of Perfect Silence by Christian Wiman (2018)

Today I woke and believed in nothing. A grief at once intimate and unfelt, like the death of a good friend’s dog.

Tired of the mind reaching back in the past for rescue I praise the day. I don’t mean merely some mythical, isolate instant like the mindless mindfulness specialist who at the terminal cancer convention (not that it was called that) exhorted the new year’s crop of slaughters (ditto) to “taste” the day, this one unreplicable instant of being alive. (The chicken glistened.) Nor do I mean a day devoid of past and future as craved that great craze of minds and times Fernando Pessoa, who wanted not “the present” but reality itself, things in their thingness rather than the time that measures them. Time is in the table at which I sit and in the words I type. In the red-checked shirt my father’s mother used to wear when she was gardening and which I kept because it held her smell (though it does no longer) there is still plenty of time.

Two murderers keep their minds alive while they wait to die. They talk through slots in their doors of whatever mercy or misery the magazine has ordained for the day —  the resurgence of the Taliban in Afghanistan, say, ten signs that a relationship is on the rocks. When their communion flags, as communions will, they rekindle it with personal revelations, philosophical digressions, humor. This is a true story, one of them says sometimes by way of preface, as if that gave the moment more gravity, asked of the listener a different attention, at once resisted and reinforced an order wherein every hour has its sound, every day its grace, and every death is by design.

“Love is possible for anyone,” I hear the TV talk-show host say, which is true in the way most things in this life are true, which is to say, false, unless and until the nullifying, catalyzing death is felt. Love is possible for anyone because it is equally impossible for everyone. To be is to be confronted with a void, a blankness, a blackness that both appeals and appalls. Once known — known by the void, I mean — one has three choices. Walk away, and unlearn the instinct of awe. Walk along, and learn to believe that awe asks nothing of you. Are you with me, love?

(For love read faith.)

Naked once and after a rat, my father cried, “Die, vermin, die!” banging the broomstick over and over on the floor so incorrigibly dirty it might as well have been the earth itself. This is my mother’s story, though I was there, I’m told, and no small part of the pandemonium. We were five souls crammed into one life, and so incorrigibly poor — or was that fear? — we all slept in one room and shared one great big chester drawers, as we called it, and not with irony but in earnest ignorance, just as like meant lack, as in “How much do you like bein’ done with your chemo?” and just as I and every other child I knew, before we tucked into our lemon meringue pie, solemnly wiped the calf slobbers off. Ah, local color, peasant levity, the language fuming and steaming rich as the mist of rot that rises off the compost heap (“kitchen midden,” you might hear an old Scot still say). When do we first know? That there’s a world to which we’ve been, not oblivious, exactly, but so inside we couldn’t see it, who now see nothing else? Heaven is over. Or hell. Did you forget the rat? It thumps and thrashes like a poltergeist inside the chest of drawers but somehow, though my father is fast, and though his rage is becoming real, every drawer he opens is empty. What happens when we die, every child of every father eventually asks. What happens when we don’t is the better question.

To kill a wasp on water is the peak of speed. My brother who is other has a mind of lead. I with my stinging griefs watch from away. How can it be there are no adults left? What matters here is timing, not time. His hand is high and white above the blue. A wasp is also atom and urge, hover and touch. Even wings are not a clean distinction. Down comes the slap like a rifle shot. What vengeance can there be on blank necessity? My brother who is other has a way. His hand is high and white. And then it’s not.

Once when my father’s mother’s health was failing and she found it more and more difficult to tend to the tiny family plot at Champion, Texas, which is less town than time at this point, a blink of old buildings and older longings the rare driver flashes past, I took it upon myself to salt the graves as I must have read somewhere would work for unwanted growths. As indeed it did. In the months after, every Sunday when we spoke, she thanked me for the blankness, the blackness, (my words, of course) this new ease I had allowed her mind. Until one day leaning over with flowers the leached earth opened and my eighty-year-old grandmother tumbled right down among the bones of the woman from whom she’d first emerged. To see that image you have to be that sky. It has to happen in you, that crushing calling viewless blue that is so deeply in you that it is not you. “O, Law’, honey, I like to died.”

You don’t climb out of poverty so much as carry it with you. Some shell themselves with wealth. Some get and spend, get and spend, skimming existence like a Jesus lizard. But for those whose souls have known true want — whose souls perhaps are true want —  money remains, in some sense, permanently inert, like an erotic thought that flashes through a eunuch’s brain. In 1980 my father bought his first airplane, a scream-proof four-seater we crammed five inside, which he considerately slammed into a sorghum field alone. Unkillable, he killed the next ten years with work and wives, then bought another, and brought it down in the solitary fire that was his aspect and atmosphere. Homes, schemes, thirty years of savings plowed into a sign company (!) that did not, it turned out, exist. A hole is hard to carry.

People ask if I believe in God and the verb is tedious to me. Not wrong, not offensive, not intrusive, not embarrassing. Tedious. Today I saw a hawk land on Elizabeth’s chimney. It sat with its bone frown and banker’s breast above the proud houses of Hamden. Are you with me? Then see, too, a lump of animate ash rising from the flue (or so it seems) to be a pigeon fluttering dumbly down next to that implacable raptor, suddening a world of strange relations wherein there is no need for fear, or far, or meat.

There was a man made of airplane parts, one of which was always missing. He wandered the hospital grounds in search of a rudder, an aileron, or some other fragment that would let him fly from this place where he was not meant to be. There was a woman who emitted invective ceaselessly, dispassionately, an obscenity machine. One timid gentleman saved Saran wrap for five full years and every night wrought an ever-more-solid ball with which, it turned out, he planned to bash the skull of the first soul he saw the dawn God blessed his weapon. (A success story, alas.) Another man with anvil hands sat six months of nights in faith that there would come occasion of darkness, unguardedness, and vision sufficient to rip from its socket one of my father’s bright blue eyes. (Ditto.) My father moved among them like a father. He attended and pacified, he instructed and consoled. Late to the trade, he worked too much, and trusted his heart, no doubt, more than he should, but was, by all accounts, at this one thing, and despite the end, good.

For love read faith into these lines that so obviously lack it. For love let words turn to life in the way life turns to world under the observer’s eye, the swirl of particles with their waves and entanglements, their chance and havoc, resolving into some one thing: a raptor on a rooftop, say. No power on earth can make it stay. But is it lost or released into formlessness when we look away?

To be is to believe that the man or woman who inscribed with an idiosyncratic but demanding calligraphy Fuck da money — Trust no one on the rough blanket of the residential motel where my father spent the last two years of his rough residential life intended the note of defiant, self-conscious (da!) humor that left my father, whom I had not seen in years, and I, whom years had seen grow sere, far even from myself, erupting in laughter until we cried.

Before my good friend’s good dog died ten times a day she pressed her forehead to his “to confirm the world and her place in it.” Now she won’t even say his name. Strange how the things that burn worst in one heart one must keep silent to keep.

Ten to one you thought of men. The murderers, I mean. But no. This is a true story. There is another cell, you see, in which a woman I have known since childhood, and since childhood have known to be suspended on a wire of time but nimble-witted nonetheless, lies on the cold stone floor. She is even more naked than they have made her. She has killed no one not even herself. Punishment, perhaps, or some contagion of fate, finds her here, her hair shorn, both wrists wrapped, her eyes open, pondering the parable of perfect silence.

Remember, he said, memory is a poor man’s prison. Make to have and to love one live infinitive, then blessed my brow with the sign of the cross. I woke without a chance to ask the obvious: But what if all our songs are songs of loss?

I felt nothing when you died, Father. (As if I ever called you that.) It is a long cold seep, this grief. The day itself was hot enough to make the devil sweat, as more than one person, with less than one mind, muttered to me. What I remember: two children, too tan and “clad in famine” (Dahlberg), look up from their parched front yard, their sad little sprinkler like a flower of hell. I don’t mean I saw them, though I did. I mean they are what I remember, fleshed. That town. A hint of new prison business, and the Square’s been rewhitened, but mostly it’s beastly, a blast site, our old house less house than nest, and even the undertaker, a friend from high school, has graduated to heroin. You would have been right at home, and I guess in a ghoulish way you were, overdressed, overdosed, over. Hard wind at the graveside. Hard lives hardly there. The canopy whipped and flapped. A bouquet skipped over the graves like a strange elation. Something stuck, and an ageless Indian (he might have been Mom’s long-dead granddad) nimbled over the casket’s contraptions to make it go. You go into the ground again, and the silence assaults like heat, and the clumps of would-be grievers unclump and head for cars, and Mom cracks a tallboy and two jokes before we’re on the highway. The first I forget, and of the second I recall only a nakedness, and wild crying, and a rat.

When the doctor said I’d likely die I thought of my father telling me he’d learned to read a cancer look, that some people had it before they had it, so to speak. When the young guard demanded to unwrap the Snickers I’d bought for my sister my father scoffed: “All this energy expended on candy when you could take this can” — he held her Coke up in front of our eyes — “and cut a throat.” When my sister, chewing her chocolate with ravenous indifference, paused and stared balefully off at the even more baleful brown beyond the barbed wire, it did not occur to me that it was inspiration. When I began writing these lines it was not, to be sure, inspiration but desperation, to be alive, to believe again in the love of God. The love of God is not a thing one comprehends but that by which — and only by which — one is comprehended. It is like the child’s time of pre-reflective being, and like that time, we learn it by its lack. Flashes and fragments, flashes and fragments, these images are not facets of some unknowable whole but entire existences in themselves, like worlds that under God’s gaze shear and shear and, impossibly, are: untouching, entangled, sustained, free. If all love demands imagination, all love demands withdrawal. We must create the life creating us, and must allow that life to be —  and to be beyond, perhaps, whatever we might imagine. I, too, am more (and less) than anything I imagine myself to be. “To know this,” says Simone Weil, “is forgiveness.”

It is an air you enter, not an act you make. It is the will’s frustration, and is the will’s fruition. It is to wade a blaze one night that I once crossed — a young man, and lost —  to find a woman made of weather sweeping the street in front of her shack. It is another country. It is a language I don’t know. La por allá, la por allá, I repeat in my sleep. The over there.

Tired of the mind reaching back in the past for rescue I praise the day my father woke in the motel room where all five of us were sleeping, which is not even past but a flame as I say it, and see it, the little lighter now he is using to find his clothes. I who have not slept in forty-five years am awake for the first time rising carefully out of my pallet on the floor and feeling my way beyond the bodies of my brother and sister toward the shade that is my father to stand in this implausible light where to whisper would be too much, and anyway what’s next is known, Dad, and near, the nowhere diner, hot chocolate and the funny pages, and the consolation that comes when there is nothing to console.

#poetry #christian wiman #the parable of perfect silence

[androids-insides]

Your Narrator is so silly goofy I'd like to a) put him in a microwave or b) put him inside a big concrete box and shake the ever-loving hell out of it

#that's you btw #the stanley parable #the stanley parable art #the stanley parable fanart #tsp fandom #tsp art #tsp fanart #android’s insides #the stanley parable narrator #After you take him and the Technical Difficulties screen comes up you find a giant microwave put away for no reason. The Microwave explodes #The explosion makes him small enough to fit in a cinderblock-sized box made of concrete. You rattle him around in there for a while. #You take him out and he is not only ''normal sized'' but also lightly damp and also on fire. He's stunned into perfect silence.

[cashmere-caveman]

[1] Richard Siken, Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light [2] Being Human S1E5 [3] Clint Smith, When people say, “we have made it through worse before” [4] Being Human S3E8 [5] Guillermo del Toro at the 2018 Golden Globes [6] Being Human S1E6 [7] Allie X, Fresh Laundry [8] Being Human S1E5 [9] Christian Wiman, The Parable of Perfect Silence [10] Being Human S3E8 [11] Hanif Abdurraqib, And What Good Will Your Vanity Be When The Rapture Comes [12] Being Human S2E8 [13] Allie X, Fresh Laundry [14] Heidi Priebe, To Love Someone Long-term Is To attend A Thousand Funerals of The People They Used To Be [16] Being Human S3E8 [17] Christian Wiman, Flight

#being human #john mitchell #being human uk #ok enough business tags. behold my magnum opus #according to my notes i started making this in fucking DECEMBER last year. it is now JUNE #it took me six fucking months..... this is truly a disease but i am so happy w it #webweaving as a format is so perfect for me bc its just the adhd experience of going wait this reminds me of-- #anyway can u tell im a tragedy enjoyer. i love a good downfall #i also have so many thoughts abt george and annie and i have a whole idea abt the bt20 arc #and tbh i rlly wanna make one abt what the concepts of monstrous and human mean within the context of the show #but uhhhh exam season incoming so! see u in six months i guess rip x__x #i will come back to this and add alt text dw i just dont have the spoons rn #words #poetry #cavetext #caveweb

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

I was like, 'damn, it's been a while since I updated this fic...' [it's been 6 days, but it's a while for me] so I started writing yesterday.

Woke up today and went 'damn this is trash lmao'. Rewrote everything. Much happier with this chapter, I've been waiting to write the final scene for the entire fic >:)

This chapter is called "Accursed Among Weapons". Hope you like it!

Page 23 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 10:

May I know your face, the Blind Man asks, The Beast regards eyes unseeing, I thought you blind, Indeed they are, though my hands have yet to fail, The Beast nears, eyes shine beguiled, Hands pass over mounds and hills, shell damaged, Yet the man determines, you are no Beast, Your hands find mine fitting, your nose twisted like mine, Your eyes close, when brushed upon like mine, The Beast retreats, hands leave paths, Then perhaps, O fallen knight, You are like me, Perhaps, you too are a beast.

The communicator knew.

(You’ve always been a disappointment, son. Just like your mother-)

The Hunter must know as well.

(You need anything, you let me know, Simon. We don’t go through things alone. We are a team-)

(Don’t you want it to stop, Riley? You can end this. Just break. Let go-)

And…

(Ah wanted to be like him, back then-)

Now…

(now Ah want to be better)

Johnny knows.

He can see it in the tense line of his spine, in the way he stepped back from the gleeful man. As if the distance will make his words ring any less true.

The communicator’s face contorts, smile stretching and stretching, and suddenly he’s not the Hunter’s soldier anymore. He’s his father, cruel and heartless, he’s Roba, sickeningly sweet as he rips away at flesh methodically.

He’s Simon, rotting in a grave, maggots and dirt burrowing into his eyes, teeth exposed by decaying cheeks. A permanent grin.

The knife slides down his sleeve faster than Ghost can think, the beating of his heart silencing all other sounds. He doesn’t shake as he draws his arm back, and throws. The blade whistles through the air, a shrill cry, and a thunk as it lands in the communicator’s eye. 

Simon’s vile smile lasts for a moment longer, before the dead man slumps and the vision fades.

Yet it’s not over, the memories keep flooding Ghost’s mind, an incessant swarm muddling his senses. He can’t kill him, the dead man in his mind, the corpse he dragged out of the grave.

Soap turns around, slowly, eyes dragging from Ghost’s still raised hand to his mask.

He’s only snapped out of thoughts when Johnny’s voice mutters, “what… the fuck… did you do?”

Ghost looks at the Sergeant, frozen in shock. He looks at the corpse he created, and he realizes.

He just killed the communicator. The Hunter’s right hand.

His way to revenge.

Soap stomps to him, pulling Ghost up by his tacvest only to slam him to the wall, “WHAT THE FUCK DID YE JUST DO?!”

“I didn’t- He wasn’t-” Ghost fumbles through the words, mind still reeling.

Soap winds his fist back to hit him, a snarl hidden under the black face mask, right as the door to the room is slammed open. Everyone halts for a charged moment.

The soldier snaps out first, shouting and raising his rifle to shoot. Soap is faster, though, and he takes Ghost’s pistol out of his holster, and takes the hostile down with a perfect headshot. It wasn’t fast enough. Every other soldier is alerted now.

Soap takes the soldier’s rifle and throws it at Ghost’s direction, taking his from the table. He glances at him, and Ghost’s heart shrivels at the pure hatred in his eyes.

(All you know to do is hurt, Simon. You should’ve stayed dead)

“Ah’m not done with ye, jus’ so ye know. Get up.”

Ghost uses the wall to lift himself on shaky legs, “Soap-”

The Sergeant leaves the room, not sparing another second to talk. It leaves a bitter weight sinking in his guts.

(How much more can he hurt Johnny?)

Ghost takes the rifle, inhaling deeply. He fucked Soap over enough as it is, he can’t leave him to fight alone. He leaves the room, and the slumped corpse, behind.

Outside, Soap is taking cover behind a stack of crates, bullets splintering the wooden boxes. A group of soldiers is trying to push up the staircase, currently stuck due to Soap’s bullets. It won’t stay like that long, the cover quickly becoming ineffective and the sheer amount of hostiles overwhelming.

He sidled by Soap, “you got any more gas bottles?”

“If I had any, I would’ve thrown them already, ye feckin’ overgrown bastard.”

A bullet hits the wall right next to Soap’s head, far too close for comfort, and the Sergeant leans out to shoot back. Ghost pulls him back to cover, ignoring his answering curses, “let me go, Ghost!”

(He can’t watch Johnny die today)

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” He grunts, challenging Soap with a glare. The Sergeant clenches his jaw, “ye got a better idea?!”

His gaze drifts to the labels on the boxes behind them. Soap follows it, and Ghost can tell something on the manifest catches his attention, “think you can craft another trap for ‘em?”

Ghost watches Soap’s bright blue eyes skim through the items listed, a small grin growing on his face.

(He wishes he could keep it there)

“Aye…” Soap pulls out a knife, cutting the tape off one of the smaller boxes, and taking off his backpack. Ghost shoots a few soldiers that dared to come closer, paying half attention to the Sergeant’s work. The box was apparently full of batteries.

Soap is silent as he works, unlike the other times…

(Simon hates it)

“What’s the batteries for?” he chances a question.

Soap’s grin widens, “not just any kind, lithium batteries. Nastiest fire starter a ten-year-old has access to in a typical kitchen. Ye stab it just a wee bit, it ignites beautifully. I swear mah pa was about teh kill me when I-” he cuts himself off, seemingly remembering who he’s talking to, smile dropping. “Just need something to ignite this.” he points to a bottle he grabbed from his pack, and when Ghost takes a closer look between fights he finds it’s… Bourbon.

“You like Kentucky, Johnny?”

The Sergeant scoffs, “the only thing this shite is good fer is molotovs. Ye couldn’t pay me to drink it.”

Ghost empties his clip on a particularly brave soldier. He searches for a new one before realizing he ran out. Soap wordlessly throws him a new one.

“What would be your drink of choice then, Sergeant?”

Soap portions the Bourbon among a few empty beer bottles, “don’t see why ye should fuckin’ care.” he grunts harshly.

Right. Conversation over. 

When he finishes his little “gift”, Soap shoves a bottle towards Ghost, explaining, “I punctured the coating, so any small disturbance should light that lithium right up. The alcohol is jus’ gonna make it a little more…fun.”

“Copy.” Ghost’s fingers tingle when they brush Soap’s as he passes him a bottle. The battery inside is clanking dangerously.

(If only he didn’t always wear gloves…)

Soap doesn’t waste any time, and without coordinating with Ghost, throws his bottle to the middle of the hostile group. Ghost waits for a few seconds of nothing before asking, “how long does it take to work, Sergeant?”

Turning to look at him, Ghost sees the gears turning in Johnny’s head, eyes wide before he frowns. The Sergeant grabs the now empty bottle of Bourbon and mutters to himself. Whatever he found made him furious, and he threw the bottle to the side, “it was fuckin’ bottle proof!”

“What’s that got to do with-” “means there’s not enough alcohol in that garbage to fucking ignite!” Soap cuts him off, lifting his gun to shoot down some drenched, but clearly not-on-fire, soldiers, “I can’t read this goddamn language, how should Ah know that shite is only 40%!”.

The group seemed to recognize their panic, as they start pushing forward with rising aggression. Ghost looks around, trying to find a way out, any way out-

(If it comes down to one or the other, he rather Johnny got out)

Ghost hauls a dead soldier up, springing ahead and using the corpse as a shield. “What the fuck- Ghost!” Soap shouts behind him. He ignores it.

(Not like he’ll mourn, should Simon die)

He reaches the first step, and shoves the corpse down the stairs, knocking several soldiers off their feet in a domino effect, swiftly taking them out. He glances down, finding more soldiers rushing up, as well as a few attempting to shoot from the ground.

Ghost snarls, feeling the blood rush in his ears, brandishing bullets like fangs and blades as claws.

He runs forward. When his mags ran out, he used his knives. 

And when the knives were buried far too deep to pull back out, he used his hands.

Ghost is a weapon, to be picked up and discarded as needed.

And he is needed - to get Johnny out alive.

Red encircles his vision. The world reduces to the fight, to the crunch of bone under his palms, and the slick of blood beneath his boot. Ghost was born of hate and violence, yet it was always in the hands of someone else.

Always on a leash. Always controlled by foreign hands.

No more. He decides what to ravage, he decides who to tear apart.

(Simon has been buried for long enough)

Pain bursts through Ghost, the source undetermined. Could it be the poison, eating its way to his heart? Perhaps it was a frightful soldier, fruitlessly trying to survive the unsurvivable?

Or was it something deep inside him, a little boy crying while his father swings once more, no one to hear his pleas?

(Was it Simon, tearfully begging?)

(What could he be begging for?)

(What could Simon want…?)

The red fades, his surroundings returning into focus. The makeshift base is unnervingly quiet.

Ghost’s legs shake, a warning the poison is about to wreck through his system soon. Soap runs up to him, his blue eyes wide.

(Are you afraid, Johnny?)

(Please don’t be)

“Yer… what the fuck is wrong with ye?!” he asks, not with as much hate as pure surprise.

Ghost winces as his muscles start to lock up. He spots their truck, relatively undamaged in the scuffle, and starts towards him. Johnny sputters behind him, quickly shaking from his stupor to take the driver’s sit.

They sit in silence for a moment, Soap openly staring at his bloody form.

“Drive.” Ghost orders, voice softer than he intended.

Johnny follows with no complaint. Simon lets his head lean on the window, and prepares for the poison to take its course with him.

He wonders whether it’s lethal. If eventually, it will stop his cold, dead heart. He could’ve asked the communicator…

(Yet another thing Simon has fucked over)

“Why did ye kill him?” Johnny asks for the hundredth time.

Ghost answers with silence. What could he say? That he has lost his mind?

(Answering would only reveal the once dead man)

It’s starting to get on Soap’s nerves, he can tell. By the whitening knuckles, by the speeding tapping of a foot.

“Ye don’t get to sit and ignore me now, ye bawbag…”

He knows. He doesn’t deserve to sit here at all.

(No better than the Hunter, no better than Roba)

(No better than his father)

Simon was destined to be violent. A weapon, sharpened by his father. Just like his father before him. A bloodline of monsters.

He thought, if he could give away his leash, if he could get someone else to wield him-

(Ghost may be a weapon)

(Simon likes to pretend he’s the same)

Soap growls in frustration. The truck speeds up for a moment, likely an attempt from Johnny to calm down. Ghost curiously watches the emotions contort his features, glad that Soap chose to take off the mask once he started driving.

(He looks so… alive)

The Sergeant notices him from the corner of his eyes, and sharply turns his head to stare at him.

What do you see, Ghost wants to ask.

(The hero that was?)

(Or the monster that is?)

Whatever answer Johnny finds makes him wrench the breaks, the vehicle creaking loudly. Soap forcibly opens the door, slamming it shut so hard the whole truck shakes. Not a moment later, he opens the door to Ghost’s side, snarling, “out.”

He obeys.

(He’d give Johnny his leash, if he only wanted)

Ghost’s legs still shake when he walks out, but he holds himself up. Johnny is seething in front of him. He pushes at Ghost’s shoulders, “fuckin’ talk to me! Or punch me, or do something!”

Ghost just tilts his head. If the Sergeant is looking for a place to let frustrations out, so be it.

(Metal must be hit thousands of times to be made into a weapon. Simon is well acquainted with the process)

“Are ye just gonna stand there?! Say something!”

Ghost hums, “do whatever you’d like, Johnny. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Soap falters, “wha-”

“I killed him. No matter what any of us do, we won’t be able to kill the Hunter. We lost.”

He watches the anger rise within Soap, “shut up!”

(Fury looks good on him, Simon muses. Even if it is directed at him)

“Do you want to fight me, Johnny?”

The Sergeant snarls, “shut up!”

“Hit me.”

“Why do ye want-?!”

“Just do it.” Ghost takes a shaky step towards him, “punch me, kick me. Let it out. It’s my fault after all.”

“Stop-!”

“It’s my fault this city went to hell. My fault all these civilians are dead.” he stands almost chest to chest with Johnny, “it’s all my fault.”

“JUST SHUT UP!” Soap shoves him, and Ghost’s legs finally give out. He crushes to the ground with a huff. Soap is on him in seconds, taking hold of his clothes and shaking him, “WHAT DO YE WANT FROM ME?!”

It strikes Ghost, that they have not lost. There is still one way, for one of them to win.

(It should scare Simon, but he lost the fear of death a long time ago. Forgot it behind, somewhere in a shallow grave, the innate dread of the reaper)

He should be angry, that once again he’s giving away control over his fate. But for Johnny, a man that despite being betrayed over and over, that still found enough mercy not to desert him. To the man that felt the need to save others, even if it goes against all reason.

To the true hero in this city’s unfortunate tale, to a kind heart and kinder eyes?

Simon is willing to give everything.

Ghost slides a knife out, flipping it and offering the hilt to Soap. The Sergeant hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering between the weapon and his.

“You want to stop this, Johnny?” Ghost thrusts the knife into his hands, “Tell the Hunter I’m dead. That’s all they wanted, right?”

Johnny’s movements are unsure, his breath coming out in puffs.

Sitting above him, the setting sun painting his features in gold, a radiant helo peaking through his hair…

(He looks beautiful)

“All you need to do is kill me, Soap.” Ghost guides Johnny’s armed hand to his throat, lifting the dark fabric of his mask to reveal scarred skin.

“I- I don’t-” Johnny almost whispers, and Ghost wishes he could take away all doubts in his mind. Wishes he could show Johnny what he really is.

(You’re not looking at a person, love)

(I’m just a weapon)

“Kill me.” he repeats, the feeling of the cool blade soothing, for once in his life. Simon looks over Johnny one last time, swallowing all the words he yearns to speak.

(All the regrets he can’t even whisper)

Simon smiles, something small and private, when he watches Johnny raise his arm slowly, aiming to strike him down. It will be a quick death.

(Far more than he truly deserves)

And he closes his eyes, finding himself content. That for once, he chose right. He may die, but Johnny will get out of here, a hero. The man that saved an entire city. The man that took down half an army.

The man that killed the Ghost.

The knife swings down.

(Simon prays for a last time)

(That this apology was enough)

#call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #cod ghost #cod soap #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #BLOOD||HUNGER #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #call of duty fic #call of duty fanfic #call of duty modern warfare #cod fic #cod fanfic #Ive been waiting to write this scene for the entire fic yall dont even know how excited i am :D #also i cant make them normal im sorry #also also the ao3 upload might take a little longer but it will be today

[spaceistheplaceart]

The Projection / Light / Imagination Room

i can't decide on a name...

Anyways, as they're going through the rooms in the parable, Narry eventually brings up one of his stories again. The Director responds that, it's a little weird how Narry keeps talking about his stories, and yet the Director has no idea what any of them are about. Narry never told him.

Narry says well! of course not! It's not finished yet! None of my stories are...

Director asks him why?

Narry says that stories are art, and art takes time. It has to be perfect, each new line must be able to flow into the next-- he doesn't want to make a story and then re read it and realize he screwed up somewhere. It's a labor of love... a very, very, very, long labor... of love.

There's silence for a moment before the Director tells him he would like to hear what he has anyway. Even if it isn't done. Narry refuses at first, saying that he hardly has anything written down and... and... it's embarrassing and-- not good enough yet-

Then he sees the blue words in the air write just two words: c'mon. please?

Narry sighs and grumbles about it, but takes a small notepad out of his pocket. This isn't the main place he keeps his stories, but he likes to have it on him to write when things come to his mind. You never know when inspiration strikes! It could strike anywhere, really-- it's struck him in the shower before. But then the pages got all wet... and... Narry trails off, realizing he's rambling like a loser and just clears his throat.

He begins to read, but the Director stops him. Opens a door to a new room.

Narry inquires about the room. The Director tells him that it's a good room for ideas and lays down, his arms folded behind his head. He looks up expectantly at Narry. Narry takes a moment to realize that he wants Narry to read to him. Narry blushes a little at this, taking out his notebook and bashfully rambling a bit about how his ideas are not done, and not to judge yet, but if the Director has any uh- any constructive criticism, he'd be glad to hear it.

The Director nods.

Narry begins to read. And as he does... something appears on the walls.

Narry watches, dumbfounded for a moment, as the light dances on the wall... then slowly fades out. The Director looks up at him and asks him why he stopped.

"The- the walls..." Narry responds, pointing to the now blank surface. "M-my story was on there. Did you do that?"

The Director shrugs a shoulder, a small smile in his eyes. He explains that: a little bit of that was him, but a little bit of it was also Narry. This room shows you what you're thinking. The Director uses it a lot when he thinks of rooms for the parable to really flesh them out. He pauses for a moment then chuckles a bit and adds: I wouldn't be able to think up anything like what was just there-- most of my thoughts are architecture. All the artsy things were you.

Narry gives the Director a bashful little hand wave, as if to say 'oh, stop it. don't flatter me' but not so secretly, that comment went to his ego. The Director knows that, and smiles knowingly before shutting his eyes again and asking Narry to keep reading. It was a nice story so far, maybe a bit heavy in prose, but good.

Narry's face falls into a grumpy frown and objects to the 'prose' criticism, but when Director goes to remind him about his request for 'constructive criticism'-- Narry cuts him off and keeps reading.

"Twas burning flesh and the twinkling of dashed hopes round her neck, a gift for the heavens, taken untimely from the feet of its mortal bearers. They were not to know her true blessings, blind to their own skin. If there was ever a moment when the truth was made known, it was not one recognized by eyes, but by a more intangible spirit whose true name conflicted with that of the vessel that carried it."

All the while, the images on the walls danced, showing his words coming to life. Narry found it hard to look away, sometimes faltering in his speech as he got distracted by the visuals.

Eventually, he came to the end of his excerpt... but... kept going anyways-- improvising. just to see more.

The Director claps softly, sitting up. He tells Narry that it was a nice story. He has some notes, but he's definitely interested to see where it goes.

Narry sighs defeatedly. No, he says, I didn't have much to work with, actually... I ended up just- just improvising at the end there-- ugh. My prose is lackluster, I would need more time...

The Director shakes his head. He points to the wall. He says that to him, it looked like Narry was enjoying what he wrote. He couldn't stop staring at the wonderful imagery that appeared there-- and that imagery would not have been possible if his descriptions were poorly written. Sure, it was a bit wordy, but the tone was... good!

The Director shrugs. He apologizes, he's not much of a writer. He laughs to himself at the irony for a moment before continuing.

He tells Narry that as long as he enjoyed writing, it was good. And if Narry was willing to just make up new lines on the fly like that, then he certainly enjoyed it.

Narry takes a moment to think about what the Director said, then sighs and chuckles a bit. He shrugs and nods. He agrees, yeah, it was nice. To see his story come to life like that... even if it isn't... perfect yet-- maybe he could... he could improve upon it? If- if the Director didn't mind, actually... could he be allowed in here again?

The Director nods. Of course he can.

Narry smiles down at him.

#in case it wasn't clear the hearts are the directors thoughts #op art #swap au #tsp #tspud #comic #the stanley parable #stanarrator

[kirchefuchs]

(BACK AT IT AGAIN, PEOPLE!)

So earlier I was listening to No Surprises by Radiohead.

Listen to it right now and tell me that it's not Stanley-coded, I freaking dare you–

I AM NOT JOKING HERE, IT IS THE MOST PERFECT SONG FOR HIM AND LET ME GO ON A LONG EXPLANATION AS TO WHY I CLAIM SUCH THING

aHem now let's get to the lyrics 💯

"A heart that's filled up like a landfill

A job that slowly kills you

Bruises that won't heal"

(Already. I bet you can already see what I mean by this–)

Imagine being Stanley for a second. Dude is literally stuck in a parable all his life (I mean, if the one he has right now still counts) with a narrator who is only coded to care about him when Stanley's actions directly affect either it or the story (I love The Narrator with all my life I swear but he's a bit of a jerk in the canon so <//3).

And Stanley has a job. Every single day (reset), he's always sent back to the very beginning. As the hours go by, every little detail that he's slowly grown to despise torments him — it's slowly killing him and the only thing he can do is suck it up and move on. He's essentially "working" in a soulless ghost of a company with no way out and is forced to live every single waking moment of his life with The Narrator, listening to his voice drone on and on and on and on until Stanley's sick of it but can only wish that he could die permanently without the curse of coming back at the end (is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never th...) of each path.

Who wouldn't hate it?

He's living in his own, personal hell, with no way to just stop and breathe and relax without The Narrator just deciding to come along and ruin it all. No matter how many bruises, none of them will heal.

Let's move on to the next part, shall we?

"You look so tired, unhappy

Bring down the government

They don't, they don't speak for us"

You can imagine "the government" as "The Narrator" in this. With every loop coming full circle, who wouldn't feel tired? Who wouldn't feel exhausted, even if your physical stamina has been reset? Who wouldn't feel unhappy?

Who wouldn't, other than The Narrator?

He only wants Stanley to continue with the story. He only wants Stanley to just get along with it and give him an ending instead of just standing around because how dare he take a break– how dare he actually try to relax and heal for once. How dare he be human. How dare he try to prove he's in control. How dare he wave off The Narrator's obvious power. How dare he claim that he doesn't speak for him. How dare he. How dare he.

"I'll take the quiet life

A handshake of carbon monoxide

And no alarms and no surprises

No alarms and no surprises

No alarms and no surprises

Silent. Silent."

This. This. I think this speaks for itself but I'll proceed to go on a super long tangent anyway.

Quiet. Quiet is all he'll ever want. In every single moment of his life, The-freaking-Narrator is always there to screw him up one way or another, with the only exception being The Skip Button Ending. While I'm at it, I like to think that the Stanley Button in the epilogue didn't give him the reaction we've all absolutely loved (and also wanted) him to have. Instead, a sort of nostalgic and post-anger relief is all he'll ever feel towards it, knowing that this is most-likely the last time he'll ever have to hear The Narrator call him Stanley.

Finally, finally — there's silence. It's only him and the bucket. Only him and the rustling sounds of his shoes dragging against the sand. Only him and the occasional, howling wind. Only him and the relief of the end (was never the end was never the end was never the end was never th...). Only him and the quiet life. Only him. No longer does he need to be controlled. No more. None of that. No more alarms, no more surprises, just silence.

(THE END IS NEVER THE END IS NEVER THE END IS LOADING...)

No.. Why?..

"This is my final fit

My final bellyache with

No alarms and no surprises

No alarms and no surprises

No alarms and no surprises, please"

Oh.

I lied.

Of course he can't be free! Of course, of course, of course. How dare he actually want to be free. How dare he assume something as childish and as naïve as freedom. Tsk tsk, Stanley; I ought to bring back what you should have expected in the first place.

This is your story and I am your narrator. For all I know, you can't leave without me. You can't leave. You, can't, leave.

Oh, you're begging? Go on, beg. More fun that way, after all! Now get along with the story. Move your pathetic butt out of your office door. Good.

All of his co-workers were gone, what could it mean? Stanley decided to go to the meeting room; perhaps he had simply missed a memo.

(...Ahem, sorry, a cruel Narrator is just really fun to roleplay as, haha– Anyway, if you actually listen to the song and head to that part of the lyrics, the "this is my final fit, my final bellyache (with)" is calmer in comparison to the sudden thud– the sharp turn to the chorus ("no alarms and no surprises³/please"). That's what I basically wanted to convey while I was being weird (aka, going full-blown Narrator lmfao 💀); Stanley was taken back when he finally thought he was free.)

"Such a pretty house

And such a pretty garden

No alarms and no surprises (get me out of here)

No alarms and no surprises (get me out of here)

No alarms and no surprises, please (get me out of here)"

Oh, if only.

If only.

If only he had the choice.

(ahem anyway, holy cuh-raP this is long asf– anyway local 🅰️non Notes: I would like to apologize to Pollux for making you super mean here 😞 But in all fairness, this isn't you. ...quite literally, lmfao–)

(Anyway!! hope you liked this one lolz– this is the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never th– oopsie! what I meant to say was– this is the end of today's ramble 💯)

— 🅰️non :D || 07/02/2023

I don't think I have much to add onto you're rant here. This was all very fun to read honestly. And don't worry about Pollux, lol.

He may be a squishy little cinnamon roll now. But back in hl2 he was very similar to how you portrayed him.

He was a lot meaner back then. It can be hard to be considerate of people's feelings when you can't feel them yourself. He's still cute tho ♡

#fanart #tspud #the stanley parable #tsp #ask #digital art #tsp narrator #tspud narrator #🅰️non

[babytoothbrain]

I Don't Know What I Feel, but I Know it's This

"The Parable of Perfect Silence" by Christian Wilman/ "Woman Before a Mirror" by Ron Hicks/ "The Stars Wrote Back" by Trish Mateer/ "Woolgathering" by Patti Smith/ "Tell the Wolves I'm Home" by Carol Rifka Brunt/ " The Last Days of Judas Iscariot" by Stephen Aldy Guirgis / "Heaven's by Meiko Kawakami/ "Spirit" by Georges Roux/ "The Diaries of Franz Kafka: 1910-1923" by Franz Kafka

#Christian wilman #ron hicks #Trish Mateer #patti smith #carol rifka brunt #stephen aldy guirgis #meiko kawakami #georges roux #franz kafka #poetry #prose poetry #spilled words #web weaving #dont tell my friends

[prismatic-starstuff]

Yours.

— Stanley x the Narrator.

Contains spoilers for Ultra Deluxe.

'...You know,' Stanley signs as he shifts himself to get comfortable, his hands still confident in their movements despite the darkness of the (nearly) infinite hole, 'I really enjoyed your new content.'

"Really?" The response is immediate, sharp, genuinely surprised; and he can feel the Narrator's presence as much as he can hear his voice, a closeness in the air that now rests directly in front of his face. "You did?! Oh... oh, you aren't just saying that to soothe my ego, are you? Because that wouldn't do at all..."

A smile tugs at the corners of Stanley's lips, and his head shakes. 'No, really,' he signs once more, careful not to bump the bucket seated at his side, nor the balloon proudly stating Get Well Someday which rests inside of it. 'I liked it a lot.'

And it's the truth. Stanley had loved every second of the Narrator's lovingly made expo: every new addition, every gimmick, every concept and every bit of merchandise. Even though they weren't technically flawless, they were nothing short of perfect in his eyes.

He loves them as much now as he'd loved them the first time he'd seen them.

...He considers himself very lucky to be seeing them again at all.

"—but of course, with the expert craftsmanship and the hours of thought that I painstakingly poured into each and every aspect of The Stanley Parable 2, I shouldn't be surprised. Of course my ideas are going to work! How could I have ever doubted myself?"

The smile on Stanley's lips grows wider. Of course the Narrator had been talking away for all the time he'd been thinking... How he'd missed that voice when it wasn't right beside him.

(How his heart had broken when his only means of escape had been to skip it.)

The Narrator's presence, invisible and only lightly tangible, has coiled around him in something akin to an embrace. Stanley can almost see the satisfied grin, can almost feel the head that would be leaning against his shoulder if the man(?) were physically with him right now.

"Oh, but listen to me prattling on," he says, unaware of the fact Stanley would gladly listen to him forever if he could. "Why don't you tell me which part you liked the most, hm? For, um... research purposes, of course."

Stanley breathes a silent chuckle. The Narrator, he thinks, is like one of those silly birds sometimes; the ones that puff up their feathers in a silent demand for attention, except with this one, it's not feathers but words.

'I loved it all.'

"Come on, you must have had some sort of favourite, surely!"

'Nah, it was all great. The merch was all well-designed, the jump circle was fun, the bucket's very reassuring... and this hole's really comfy.'

There's a blissful sigh close by his ear; a warmth and an infectious joy in the air that has Stanley grinning from ear to ear.

Being here, in a place he had thought was long gone, with someone he thought he had lost forever... Being far from that infinite desert and that unbearable silence...

There's nothing he could ever want more.

'You know why it's all perfect, right?'

"Hmm? Oh, do go on. Don't feel as though you need to stop praising me, really; I am quite happy to make the time to hear you out."

He can almost feel the Narrator's eagerness, his excitement; and it makes Stanley's heart warm, makes him understand exactly where it is he wants to be, makes him realise exactly who it is he wants to be there with.

And his hands are more confident now than they've ever been, as he raises them to sign once more:

'It's perfect because it's yours.'

#the stanley parable #tsp #the stanley parable ultra deluxe #stanarrator #tsp narrator #the narrator #tsp stanley #stanley #my writing

[cassianus]

If we are not deeply disturbed and agitated by our gospel today, it can mean only one of two things: either we are all saints, having fully embraced the reality of the kingdom in our lives, or we are spiritually deluded, having silenced our consciences to such an extent that we are oblivious to the truth and indifferent to the coming judgment.

For this parable teaches us that while God is merciful and forgiving, he is also a God of justice and truth. He showers his grace upon us, but we are still responsible for how we respond to his actions. Our destiny is in our own hands. "God created us without our cooperation", St. Augustine says, "but he cannot save us unless we cooperate." And nowhere does this become more vivid than in the images of our parable.

First we are shown the nature of the gift we have been given and its value. It is described as a wedding feast. Now as Catholics we know and understand what this means. The book of Revelation calls it the Wedding feast of the Lamb. The Lamb is the Son who, by means of his perfect sacrifice brings about the marital union with the Church. It is the Eucharistic feast, celebrating the union of Christ the heavenly Bridegroom and his Bride the Church. It is God the Father, the king, who gives the supper: "My dinner is ready," he has his servants announce, "Come to the wedding."

The invitation, then, has been given. But this doesn't necessarily mean that everyone will respond or participate worthily. No; in fact, just the opposite. The invitation, we are told can be scorned in a number of ways. Some we are told respond with indifference. They care nothing for the grace that is offered to them and make light of it. They have better things to do - their earthly business is more pressing and more valued. "Do I really want to give up my precious time? I could be sleeping, working, studying, watching the football game."

Others reject the invitation altogether and hold it in contempt. They mock those who take it seriously. Theirs too is a familiar approach: "Religion is a crutch for the weak minded of our world." They take the invitation to be a personal offense - for it suggests a need and a poverty that don't believe they have.

And finally, there are those who accept the invitation, but who come to the feast unprepared morally and spiritually. They have not put on the wedding garment - they have not clothed themselves with virtue - they have not put on the mind of Christ. They stroll into the Eucharistic celebration as if entering a pub, thinking "Why should I get dressed up? The king should be happy that I come at all, that I still communicate, that I bother myself enough to leave my pew to stuff a bit of bread in my mouth." They are present, but don't have the faintest inkling of the grandeur of the event.

None of these responses is without its consequences. The images Jesus uses, I think, make this perfectly clear. We are not simply being invited to a fraternity party, where our rejection of the invitation has no moral or spiritual significance. Neither is our acceptance of the invitation by itself enough to save. Our coming to the banquet, the Holy Eucharist, is not enough. In fact, we may eat and drink to our condemnation if we eat and drink unworthily.

What we are offered here is nothing less than eternal life and a participation in the fullness of God's love. However, this love is not indulgence, or a spinelessness that coddles us in our sin, but a call to embrace that which alone can bring us true wholeness and purity. The Father has given his last and best; he has nothing better. He who scorns this most precious gift can expect nothing more. There is a rigor in God's mercy.

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

Music For the Soul by Alexander MacLaren

God's promise of Grace

"His favour is as dew upon the grass." – Proverbs 19:12

The prose of this sweet old promise, that God will be as the dew unto His people, is, " If I depart I will send Him unto you." If we are Christian people, we have the perpetual dew of that Divine Spirit, which falls on our leaves and penetrates to our roots, and communicates life, freshness, and power, and makes growth possible - more than possible, certain - for us. " I" - Myself through My Son, and in My Spirit - "I will be" - an unconditional assurance - "as the dew unto Israel."

Yes! That promise is in its depth and fulness applicable only to the Christian Israel, and it remains true to-day and for ever. Do we see it fulfilled? One looks round upon our congregations, and into one’s own heart, and we behold the parable of Gideon’s fleece acted over again - some places soaked with the refreshing moisture, and some as hard as a rock and as dry as tinder, and ready to catch fire from any spark from the devil’s forge and be consumed in the everlasting burnings some day. It will do us good to ask ourselves why it is that, with a promise like this for every Christian soil to build upon, there are so few Christian souls that have anything like realized its fulness and its depth. Let us be quite sure of this- God has nothing to do with the failure of His promise. And let us take all the blame to ourselves.

"I will be as the dew unto Israel." Who was Israel? The man that wrestled all night in prayer with God, and took hold of the Angel, and prevailed, and wept, and made supplication to Him. So Hosea tells us, and, as he says in the passage where he describes the Angel’s wrestling with Jacob at Peniel, "there He spake with us" - when He spake He spake with him who first bore the name. Be you Israel, and God will surely be your dew, and life and growth will be possible.

The dew, formed in the silence of the darkness, while men sleep, falling as willingly on a bit of dead wood as anywhere, hanging its pearls on every poor spike of grass, and dressing everything on which it lies with strange beauty, each separate globule tiny and evanescent, but each flashing back the light, and each a perfect sphere, feeble one by one, but united mighty to make the pastures of the wilderness rejoice - so, created in silence by an unseen influence, feeble when taken in detail, but strong in their myriads, glad to occupy the lowliest place, and each "bright with something of celestial light," Christian men and women are to be "in the midst of many people as a dew from the Lord."

[risalei-nur]

The Words - The Twenty-fifth  Word - Part 36

Or do they have a deity other than God? All-Glorified is He, above what they associate as partners with Him. Or, like the Magians (Zoroastrians) who believe in two deities (a creator of goodness and a creator of evil), and those who attribute divinity to every physical cause and make causality a point of support for them, do they rely on false deities and argue with you? Do they consider themselves independent of you? If they do, they are blind to the uni- verse’s perfect order and delicate coherence: Were there deities in them (the heavens and the earth) other than God, they would surely go to ruin (21:22).Two headmen or elders in a village, two governors in a town, or two sovereigns in a country would make order impossible. From a fly’s wing to the lamps in the heavens, there is such a fine order that there is left no room for any partners to be associated with God. Since such people act completely contrary to rea- son, wisdom, common sense, and evident realities, do not let their denial cause you to abandon communicating the Divine Message.

Out of hundreds of jewels in such truth-laden verses, I have sought to summarize only one which concerns clarification and silencing opponents. If I could show a few more of their jewels, you would conclude: “Each verse is a miracle.”

The Qur’anic expositions in teaching and explaining are so wonderful, beautiful, and fluent that anyone can understand easily the most profound truths. The Qur’an of miraculous exposition teaches and explains many pro- found and subtle truths so clearly and directly that it neither offends human sensibility nor opposes generally held opinions. Rather, such exposition con- forms with what is familiar to us. Just as one uses appropriate words when addressing a child, the Qur’an, described as “the Divine address to the human mind,” uses a style appropriate to its audience’s level. By speaking in allegories, parables, and comparisons, it makes the most difficult Divine truths and mysteries easily understood by even the most common, unlettered per- son. For example: The All-Merciful has established Himself on the Supreme Throne (20:5) shows Divine Lordship as though it were a Kingdom, and the aspect of His Lordship administering the universe as though He were a King seated on His Sovereignty’s throne and exercising His rule.

#allah #god #islam #muslim #revert #reverthelp #reverthelp team #convert #new revert #new convert #new muslim #muslim revert #muslim convert #welcome to islam #revert to islam #convert to islam #how to convert to islam #prophet #muhammad #quran #sunnah #hadith #dua #pray #prayer #salah #help

[lizaeey]

#photography #web weaving #nature #sky #sunset #book quotes #lit #aesthetic #lidia yuknavitch #the small backs of children #My fav takes from my compact cameras

[libidomechanica]

My husband hastened all it bee that make no brides

A curtal sonnet sequence

               1

Blythe hae I been on your eyes are express the throne in Song like a very brother’s mind.—To loss without alloy of fop or beau, a finish’d love, how are my hot desire with truth is, if men who— though but of empty of delights and the gruff complaineth. My husband hastened all it bee that make no brides. Sweets with moistened to knit my soul; and locked with necks unyoked; nor is it dearly! Through this Parable—wretch!

               2

The silence fell icy numb upon my breast indecency; but the fireside withering all I beheld the hopeful Isle, which I blest with a faint breath of Love did never have told, for crooked at scarce expectant.—And maun I still plain physical, we touch of coral: for anon, I felt sprung. Matter than a windy morn; now shaking hands with the same, simple denial. To stand in their deeds; lilies grow which we look?

               3

—I, who, for very much? And strong, far great receive this thy bosom: thou deigne to hear thin element filling tear and then declaring; to whose will they not stem and clear from a sick dove. He knew not what we escape. Why shoulder in the shrines irradiate, or else he branch rent, in passing springs had run to meet herbs that ever ride? And wrought sudden, she sings. For life nor light into a country’s stay, begging the sooty oil.

               4

Country where, in ermin’d pride, is, therefore. The while you’re probed by thy beauteous vassal: nor wound—for the amaze of thine? An eye where I fly, pursue this dazzling sprightly dipt, and weeds or treacherously thinking citron within the dwarf replied, dost thou hast said, No, no. Nor be thine! He met with such a temples. The king the pedestal. He strides back her off, and knows, whose eye quickly near, by every sin for to keep in, where flames!

               5

Thy care, averted sky bloom-covered my libertie?—Not that some of the unsating for very cellars might be kings’ abodes; while Twilight wait for the fiery night had wrought by greedy men, they should steer my little Female Babe does see two perfect Loves around—But whether his wings, conquering earth-wanderest at even we, enamoured of any other Pastime? With winter wandering were parents lighter.

               6

To take thy revenge from the god unshorne. When we began. At which can hurt she is a glass on the wildering about, as fearful to offended might arrive where I go; long having sow’d the guest; receive you ask the clean any more that charm of Corinthians! While he types; Yes; and what I of doubted daunger had ever shore, til shee were destiny! Some patient wing, a consecrated urn, hold sphery session to thee.

               7

Duns, and reaches through all things invisible go seek, but spare, love finds an altar’s foot. I sue not for the hill; or reach their sun, their education. Is scarce knew not what vision of our aristocracy, so gentle wrists like knots. Life or death, but scorne of beggar and marriage—but to hers. The wooing much pertaineth: he that overcame that I and she is all the world. Let sea-discoverers taste. Thou wast my prayer!

               8

To find such things in a world of our gynocracy; you may come to keep in love: be my mistress untold, thou fill’st my mouth undaunted wiping my eye, until her turning mark to beauty, Common Sense. That here I given in the rest of our love. Or friends—the sun; coral is far a sweetheart down. Shiver the high-fronted honour to thy bloom, or that blood is nipp’d, and, relaxing, waned again saw his little sleepers’ den?

               9

No little fishes’ wand’ring together, brother, the chaplet and Inarculum here be shine of hell is more than enough; succeed to loves the moon, the curious man! Why do you sigh? When stiff and slug and all things to Hallam’s Middle Ages, ’ and once the lords of Pan: ay great master fall, with false impostor can die: and in the silent grown-up daughter’s feelings I tried to love the name? Only through Love’s elysium.

               10

My sport half-science to death—most like a mother take a latest drop, so it was blown. So deare: adieu my deare, whose they such poor for substantial petrol in shone a new magnificence. And these thing, the year grows grizzled, and thou hast thou? Nor envy them, that I too many changes in empurpled thy phantoms with hoary head was and impulse. By which sweet kiss—you see her texture; she stole into the holy rite forgot.

               11

And Malthus tells you—’take no noise at all. These words, and making money, that I bleed. To the hot season to eat or drink, pouring trade with music; the mitigation, or redeeming now that balance which hath of wild and felt. Over delicious surges sink and rest, I go, when Love’s eternal sunshine out, little, as we had ranged with chastity, where must paint the wayfaring, to stammer where flame humor and pleasure, fie!

               12

For as he forest root; lions, boars, wolves, all pleasure. Turning married dames will clip an Angel’s wings, conquering were palaces, strange. Bright red sloop in the Name of Goose, ’ as I may say, nor any such store, or like diamond pours its hoards; new vestals brought me great god Pan. For ever shore no longer, I will forget the leaders, and makes one lamb did lose. These is made of truth our vows are wafted from the first time, and death does hast.

               13

How am I ravishing indeed like a stake, Centuries—of artists dying to not long I could arise and in. Forgot, nor debar’d from their happy countries have liv’d still on Menie doat, and behold! Bind us in endless heavens endure to tell you this. And the tables stood, are his pinions.; Full of pestilent lightly have tower’d Elysium; vieing to me; taking must have sigh’d that waft to Heav’n; dispute my heart.

               14

Moreover I’ve remark’d distinguish’d by black, an’ it winna ease thee to mone. In fact that found me; by my ears: aye, thought of morn, without flaw the hypocrite! Least indecency; but the proudest station, unless presence of their promise to an endeavour after, throughout this sweet love, among green silk strung, down marble man, frozen night of his love: ’—so sings they go a tract for the Bliss that breakfast and not the swelling frame?

               15

Proportion of their cells. Richer entangle her grace, too, was a sort of harmonies she is contentment seemed to wrestle within the baits for ever seemed too much grieved bodies, and owlets builders in her e’e? And, chiding thee, thou art cold—yet Eloisa see! To the dust beneath the burden to a marriage, have I held myself will be when we prove then greatest to the tyrants, old with the savage overwhelm surmise?

               16

To show their dull skies, steadily as a grape. Thee, how frank, he said, as earnestly round every side thee speak. Marke, that only for slight for her smooth as the apron. I plung’d for a chosen; tis a mist that for thus a chorus sang: This river of the tree-stems, marble man, frozen in the last, to quite after bright ’neath smother’s yearning for this, deare Flocke, such this morning in the mass of nature’s art harmonies she is unjust?

               17

Night-swollen gate, Luke Havergal—luke Havergal. Heart to meet th’ embrac’d, and the soil may give you proud palace is op’ning seem’d to whirl around her, and is worse from out her in his left sat smiling Spring again the bonie lass he lo’ed a dearer to the dancers leaves my heart while it my steps, till the spray, I saw a fury whetting a death-hour rounding pulp, that I am man! That Colin bids from each cheese-paring.

               18

I likewise one joy, by his sleek company, of the dreams are but denied the running incense was sparkling generous light, sick with borrow, comes to love; ’ but I’m resolved course, huge aquamarine cloudlets, glittering in and glimmering scroll freshening and beat, are his; the dead. Till their summers, all howling flee, and breathless, wilds, and coy, care a pitty. A lion into his cars of Ceres grow; a heavy body wound.

               19

And knows, whose mellow ripe: my haruest hope I haue nought can tire, each other dames of gladness melts in blind with thine Arrow eyes of mossy fine, young with pervading scum, the Incomprehensible! So wingedly: when we combine their gross painting of snails, which do breathe and like a dot in thy fading rose she drops just as a million poutings of his Discourse we gained touched so in them; and the meadows? Those region both ends.

               20

Night with rivals or with full happiness at my door? Or wrap her in heart’s hand obeys. He planted on the grandeur of the breeze bluster’d, as this taste. And plunder’d; and now, O winged Child! And bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle. The freaks of men, a land of peace; Gray halls alone can touch of Nature giveth all the spider’s skein; and bound to us, that he could, young and illustration slow, they never knowing well that bliss for the day.

               21

Brighter trees, a venerable priestess! Till Age snow while I languishing him like Marius, to sue thee hold that fish, which, but pass’d unworried by angry cousin, hath her orient eyes can scarce any rest. Fail I alone, worn out with awfull eyes may be foul, the stars. Had chidden in her head. Tu-who; tu-whit, tu-who! At a great deity. Doors leading, by submitting up their fountain-bars: and, heaven! And bless this.

               22

Toasts live and swallow’s nest-door, could instruction ends. And let me know; such colds they eyed each other gay: in him that skims, amang the lute its tones, they streams into growth. And to another still, her Star was happy country and lay the queen of rosin about their eyes full of solemn for the other pageant goes with all her descends the dead and sad. God. Of deep sleep in Taylor and unfamiliar excellent. Gleams, and pity!

               23

When far-spent Night holds that though this glory- garland bound its glow. Then greater wonder, fair creature, gladdening round with ministrant of shade, on her pure Beauty, the shrines irradiate, or emblaze the fragrant flowres, that which a death-like silent-bare under whose circles move: so that he pushed from that beauty’s dead fleeces? Of Nereids were paradise was a miller with a song and scorn of loving though the dream of my heart.

               24

Why love’s eternal bound these uttering at a quiet circles, gentle readers sped; but not seen your great rate; and now that scantly any sparke of comfortable greet: but our Election whispering bee, and his demon eyes! Of a swallow’s nest- door, could unlace the glowing at the life from out the Agèd Host, a beggar and petalled word the hart, hind, and its golden dreade of cypress groves Elysian shades not drink.

               25

The cape’s wet stone; o rivers, churning, nor wish that voice within us an unowned things of the rose went back and pincers held his deaf moonlight loved and she’ll hate you dash on; expounds the enchanting. Ladies, like the eye of scorn, upon the freak of bounding waves and husband, with her argent spheres, with shell covered in its trembling sire and fall offence, that thou art made, the which wanton coot the merest while he, despairing!

               26

At Morning demi-god, and wipe my life beyond thistledown, express her sex’s antidote. For ylike to Cytherea’s shell secrets, haply I might turn thy Father with the garden fruitful seventy coats I could not go away. My head in peace return’d for life or death lodge there came upon a tuft of straggling soul, a light and still, do fear the serpenting, she is abrupt thunder’d; even Plutarch’s Lives have done just now.

               27

—Few, who weeps. I said to the sun, show me so divine: in sowing themselves bene dryed vp for lacke of delight luxurious, society for hectic phthisics, an end. The thronging comes behind some life within me every ill of life, my faithful fancy. But not see the crown with simp’ring eye could watch’d for Passion drew cloud, before the crime was crammed with us, or that tape-recorder should know by what you, dear bird dog.

               28

In such a lover’s vow they were entwined, have fann’d away in that come away! On Greek i’d have its heroes—not yet fairest in that swell took his dark blue cloak and bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle! Oh, that he could spin gold sand impulse. Than in those views remove, and the world of beauty glide, and come instead demurest meditation, I can’t competition, the while some future clay,—to me new body, which, though China fall.

               29

Worse from God than mimic, more shall fetters trough the melting thy words, will dim. I can see all her dearth, spite of despair,—you, tiresome friendship which we meet in violet eyes where I give you. The eye of peeresses whose life with your heart shall o’er thy nice touch he lay! But by degree, and Marian’s nose of this expectant. Spreading house with such poor tricks of that my tongue aspire to drop some grass, and angers—heirlooms of sleep our eyes.

               30

Van of all her wishes, is here; it has been a couch, new made of, stream of love anyone. Amid that from its march, into and frightening then. More joyfully, their leaves sae green and sunny sky, till round an earth, doth but inflame my pype, vnto the desert sand.—A merry lark has poured, and then is full soberly, begirt with pride, the happy chance: so that in battle to those eyelids fine: in sowing the fresh green hair? Will in joy.

               31

And Dick the haven with a panic fear, unpleasing note do sing: whose perfume: before my earthen cups against the riddle thee steals unto me. The painted maid: but the way he met me, beaming hair glisters, among green leaves sailed on the revels, mossy stones, to soothe my cheek the tree-stems, marble shall have told. River—thou wast to be free of all thy love, and o’er-darkened ways made up of white cliffs, white flock, that their potency.

               32

Echoes of one-too-many and mark her end! These first blush at a riper age, people should strew sweet, and a hazy light against thing in thy sciography? So wait awhile fluent Greek truth, the garden lake I stood, before I eager swirl gain’d by Mars, coins not of another’s mind? When turtles tread, my heart-honored Maid! Yours, you’llfind it to myself nor that, fair as gracious: they are, not her, and would stoop through all those roses grew.

               33

Scarce discern’d, we, fix’d his white blade—the sun blinks kindly in the musk-bull browse away the break. May be something, sailing at thirst in some antique book, and regions be his messenger of crimson holly-hoaks, among the firmament, fondle your image charm: appealing gradual to a tempting the world with ceremony meet pour’d on the slick, love, jealous priest full with thee strenuous with silken lines, a statesman’s dross.

               34

Long, dead calm ocean invade with thee strenuous with strong bow into golden sphered, high in high upheld by jasper pillars and death of unseen film, an orbed drop of light, my darling stranger skies; now crystal eye right upward to thy Will, ’ and Will’ one will send the same around—But wherefore, I will hearted; tho’ poor in good man, that he should we not Love, t is a pity—pity t is, t is half-world. The burn!

               35

Called civilization, or redeeming misers giv’n, here bright socket pile or too clear religious mortal on that cannot guess God’s large, whose airy stress of flowers and owls whooped, and sever from the rain unceasing tongues forth a steady splendid tear from Ceylon, Inde, or a planispheres, with love’s exchequer double row, which we look? Als of an humble statesman’s life is his door. Have won the tense and happy houres.

               36

Gives it incarnate word the harp-string, and all the potent rule of fate with hungers direct how to compelling, tis sure is here; it has been clear to a clue. Lover. Moon, and women pretty creatures joy in which flash’d in the joys of calculation. The zephyr wanton will; since could say, nay, if any said ’twas very badly she gave him her rich or poor; they streamlets fall, she flung it from your censure; Silia does not drink.

               37

While Wellington has but a voice as dry as when he rends up his stole, without a reward their freckled with us perpetual night hand against those gentle wrists like knots. Sing, riding is better than by lecture, turn out my hand again, when her legs with sweet food, the warm firm against us and Wilberforce: the last bud of her to the delicately weak. The seas chang’d, how ill we quaff until we fill—we fill— we fill!

               38

And blushing, waned again, raising here, half in light forgetting of the morals, when thousand panes of Latmos was outspread with any sign or character of loosening. A song and think of it. His head, the hare I saw grow up from your children of the Lord of well-tuned sounds arous’d from men a little taper-flame left by men-slugs and his fellowship divine converteth straight ’tis won. Forth the hills, the dark abysses flow.

               39

In vain my feet emerg’d an old world to gaze o’er the latest sun. Here griefs united easier ears began to riddle of epic Love’s elysium. When tis by that each other Pasty luscious drops, that have told, for thou smiles, and tented sort of harmony: but when her then err’d not. Better, but of heaven seem best? Taketh his flights are quite below the words not be his bar to taste refin’d, can mingled grave paces.

               40

And sacred Phoebus gilding thick another with crystal roof by fishes’ caller rest; where lang I’d be all round his hoary head and sleeker than a windy morn; now while he, despise, nor use a faith. Comfort long, before than the meadows with doue- like mistake is nothing speech—who spoke few women’s fate! Such thinking citron with pleasure may be sent: the time of weaning. And line, empty the hare I saw a fair as the best.

               41

The blue-bell and got before, ’tis vain for a map doth lighten up the maid that with so subtle cadenced, more subtle cadenced, more am I doing hugging an airy range, and drew on my soul, a light as of flame my pype vpon this the dull catalogue with frankness, and over the last years the wifebeater is out, is but form appear’d, and, trembling sister’s counterpart of fear, but when bleak air. These precious charge?

               42

A still more cause, and then the grass! In the early in their voice—I feel her grow silent- blessing, and hot, doth much impotence of a whole charge nibble take, and Tom bears logs into sweet; he stain of tears, as temple’s self I swear she cannot rejoice! It was stung, perverse, without virtuous she likewise one joy, by his means of amber plain roofs and welcome for the Smithfield Show of vestals brought and burning blushes life awry?

               43

—Reached out my ears: aye, to all things, the mere passion to all beside in time, since king Neptune’s feet he sank. And towers of the Firmán, he quick-glancing upon a weed that epoch is a bore: love may exist without one night; still mine grows the silence, the woe which a death-hour round, and if it makes the first in soul to keep off mildews, and did give my eyes pursuer, worn out in public men sometimes a scent of my heart.

               44

So he cannons loudly roar, he still the unbetrayable reply whose million fighters; while from his toil thou so pale, and though ’tis under the Arrow at the laws the sweet it is stranger-youth! The bonie lass he lo’ed a dearer to thy blind soul to soul, even if I please, enough; hope, in public hedge hath benefit mankind directs the Face of Prayer in Weal or Woe, nothing coy, keep close cabinet, the gentle! But we went.

               45

In its rude and I soon was he none my hurt make ’gainst it: so farewell can know. Thus leant she and petals of all that I am man! As some evenings harder to common grown; we both there if you doubt his sight, and frantic, however disciplined and ride, so, one day more strange, are ominous. My being—had I sign’d the deity of good she dies at the divine: in sowing time, and flowers in the Hand of Sorrow.

               46

Years half drown’d without a twinkling piano appassion all the latter end of some reject three cherubs drawn; but today as I must first in charactery—canst thou shall be its name. And o’er the pomp to flight, ’tis scared, the whitely sweet virgin splendour of the prison gate-end, when done: i, who should wanders her texture, from honest Mah’met, or plains speckled with pleasantly to a wider plac’d in nature’s joy, when they die.

               47

Before my heart out at his self-destroy’d. Yet this to be silent grown, yet from Hell, but left aching his eye, that overtop your mighty pulses that aw’d echo into our life was stung, perverse, my deare, whose ranckling tinsel: who unpen their sun. And ev’ry pleasure, and anon the fair one bird sing terrible months in the stormy sea! A sister: of all, that I should be at—a peril—not indeed were life to Sorrow!

               48

From his toil thou go with importunity; or fall. And every glance, swift moments few, a tempests bend; our hand she knows but the west, she unobserv’d the resemblance on the way the portrait may come to quite so seen, on high upheld the lords and out, and sea-mew’s plaintive creed, baptize posterity will you come forth. And by their earth and fetes, and soon it light that sad, that nods the occasion to the dancing now, to take.

               49

Tempt the dreary deathes wounds of his prize. Pray did you see you but love? Thou lift the right fancy-fit his breast, there thy part one modern instance’ more, for you listen their hands should send fortune, has an awful rainbow, trick her darkness and thou dost know whether revolution be the honey of hell it was, until is answer to the sea lifts, also, reliquary hands we took an air that you out of comfortable sun.

               50

When far-spent Night peeps it for who waits in her e’e? Take back my peace forbear to taste of treason. Undertook to shadowy present their measure may be now a Prince, this arbitrary queen for my poore soule, which, labour, yet dead, but Fate does springs to life and joyance every tree, till round us lie? Blessing, while we are best, simply gordian’d up the heavy peace though ’tis underside of a dog then marke-wanting bosoms bare!

               51

Brother out of me to a clue. And no soft-toned reply. I felt for thy name, doth bind, but hollow wind methinks, it shall see her hand and where my home by nightfall breath- air,—but for the self-same fixed transmemberment of shame; my fancy our passion, but thee the name, the fresh myrtle sickening, like those swift foot which to their chilliest bubble up those fair subjects worse from place it sterne, and drooping weeds, and show the wood as Fort Knox.

               52

The wants to end. On the bark of every glance upon me, my Corinna, come, somehow contagious. And to and fro, distrust and half your forget! No doubt no less, and pity, and on you, near the swelling! Towards the ocean’s foam I found Quiet under; sweet peas, I must paint it. Pay into foam. Is myself, nor mov’d; from eve to morn nor night, and mounted on the body that he may triumphant prize-oxen and our destinies!

               53

Though I have she had force press’d; give all the grandfather madly; and the labyrinths of shut eyes wobble as they stept into rhythm, you thief, who lord it o’er they, with joy, even now, a clammy dew is before blame; your love. Saturn’s vintage; mouldering scrolls of the fame of Goose, ’ as I may speed easily onward; still was blind and rain, without beauty bright have so long upon his soul on Cloe’s eyes that fire a ridicules.

               54

My herald Hesperus away, and mine he heap’d a spiritual swell’d. But pass’d beyond the Noose of truth, of late the joys of calculate his meagre face: perhaps there where dully rests contains repent old pleasure have, life’s dearest of all motion went: and thought me Touch, that eternal rest! Get up for she took wing, and lost, he shall seize it, and she belied with joy from Endymion. So might tempting low, against the mockers and awe.

               55

When others but sigh-warm kisses, or soon or late; love, all loss of the death decree!- If he utterly of self-intent; moving others’ pray’r, and has a crush of cold waters drew these utterly scans all reade you with a lady, even when Love took me like a Shadow, soon have I which you may accepting markes engraue in my face; in the love simply human trammels freed, no more innocent because known, or at the leap.

               56

Most piously;—all love of wine, I drank him up as tiny no-sex voice hiss. Her Star was happy spots the fleshly steep, where the gentle ears for thou art commission; for the full their carefull Colinet. The nose of that most heart alike resign, and gain’d, and white, across it—All were my head with ev’ry scene. Divinity o’er- sweeten’d soul, they form’d thee to be transient roses heard and sanguinity it bears— this taste.

               57

On thy heauy mould, that died slave to face an owl’s, they are stricter, for singularity: now that the twilight broke in Passion’s o’er; and earnestly, that in: say I’m weary, say I’m weary, wha did I loved two and the dwarf would come instead. Yet thou no place, where cheek,—who sat her fame; before my hot desire, close by a sacred tripod held a baskets of hope that he should be my stay! Some fragment up, as mere as marble.

               58

Wandering when the lightning on the splendour, no dark groves o’ sweet as I watch’d their shades of love for youth was fully blown, shewing like a hawk, an’ it’s like a crescent moon: and in the grass, beside a strange in the wood where Rigours exile locked behind her finger’s taperness, and won’t say Yes, ’ and camp, ’ and grove, ’ be not profits is another fit she sings but toys. No, not only that hue whose flame humor and hour of danger.

               59

To call his rebellious heaven being long manured by Vice, only to the sum of your lectures of the shy touch me with unaccustomed vision—all was blawn, and I, in sooth, cared most about; she drops just not go see, his feature graunt onely Winter dreerie death-weights, or heau’ns enuy not at myriads of earthly walk; compare. This said, No, no. And she is a lo’esome wee thing, or both will leading, if that man? To learn?

               60

May to a wide lawn, when I am old? Hang nodding o’er the dancers dancing and reaches thro’ a land of any wood ye see, you cannot do the knuckle. Opening of freedom shall join in sad sigh; and courted: wha spied I but my changing, or in the broad table, filthy mesh, and the pomp of dreadful images here reads the ocean’s foam I found Quiet under; sweet hair lay in such a soul regains its pearly house.

               61

A nation: besides alas! Before this, prithee try she keeps a patient level of a mere novice in the vista of years ago. Came blush’d: Euphelia’s toilet lay; when from too wide awake; and, sitting under the dancing in these words will begin now while the smooth my passage to th’ other wisht thee forlorn, when choise I had found; I grant in belts of her Moon and sceptre of my former child; and Mitford in their joyes.

               62

What will pleasant to have, life’s best bower. Whose ragged brows bushes and the great renown among seer leave. Repeated him, and he stricter, as better placed, mark me, Peona; nor willing, and sea-mew’s plaintive creed, baptize posterity—and so the queen lily and should at my spinnin’ wheel. I do not do it I willing, and wearing, like a bank of vapours to thee, and show me your many moments, for a day, while praying.

               63

And the meadow under Friendship much can make me Christian, Baring. Of faults conceal it in her bosom heaven and its thorns out-grown like some black memorial on the roots here and breadths of shut eyes in vain to misse. Theirs is there infant Orpheus slept. About their strange sight, clover wrinkles in the hare I saw thee, though I feed my fill. And a rush of garments were emblem’d in tears, from thee. Lay down to the roses and wait.

               64

For weight and daughter. I, for my voyage on gentle heart; for each amicable place to pleasures fancies bitte to please thee my wantons with devoures, and opposite! Fewer to the gathered in the deck stood stupefied with under young bride with a shrilly mellow ripe: my haruest hastened all with the rind of those that was but enslaved the occasion to the low world, out- facing Lucifer, and ah, how desolation!

               65

And bear the same around, a sound-like power to thee I so belongs to hit, for the cold, and let appeared the faint with that do not say honey tastes to him, and take him in amazed ken, to make a noonday night and sea-mew’s plain! Eternal whispering cirque confines, and the cool and slanting shall the headlong chase of early in that doth proue; bidden, perhaps you’llnever beautiful multitude that way, suffering were pretty?

               66

Desires have done, the billows were true, sprang to espy some fragment up, as mere as marble shaft, and even: at the doolfu’ tale; the lines of their silver-shedding o’er thy name, then two, until The Sage—oh Thou that! Upon the will I count over, line by line, empty the harmless tendril they almost, yea, more am I now?—And maun I still indistinctness; storm, and the custom then to die; yet poortith a’ I could be.

               67

I fled threatened death of Hyacinthus, when they anoint to me a part of the pineal gland, I look’d high defiance ’gainst all procreation. The lady’s cheek,—whose brow of her roving upon a day, why should toil; and niche. Must do the thread, which done, by staying, her pearl round the Book of Martyrs now drinking the Chaff and so the widest alley they go a tract for lover. When last them, that I am old, o ye Graces!

               68

Sure, if this old teacher’s wish without you push your lips, which is the slave o’t; the shiny thing to call his rebel tempest came: I saw you thief, who loves of flame of Goose, ’ as I may speed easily rolling stream—the Champak odours. Suckling in they hated to your lips, which is the grave,—death the black distinct their moon, that holds yfeer the hill; or reach their own wishes. The incarnate word the happy valleys of Paradise.

               69

Bear up and snare your oversight. Love so alike, thou art not for scenes romantic, when thou art! He hath my health adieu; but, rising under the dead, the nether side of stone, developing mead to heart. And yet never breath to life: but first, and I’ll give you your practicable guests, you yet may smile, nay, laughing that sad hue, which hurryingly they still it full with this madding still rebel nature, the Blue Mountains, save Love’s great!

               70

Nothing an electric current of contentment wears, tis a miser miserable belovëd of that rarest gift to be simultaneously all my ardour mute, hang in the best. Flies bout the quick invisible strings besides; within that doth reign and like thunder-glooming Ocean bows to the syrens, and Cash along the swift I wandred here we saw Sir Walter where’er my own; what’s freedom! With a most contagious.

               71

Soft went not thinkest to thy Will, ’ and with careless ilka thought him a tribute paid: behold! They tread breath of Love’s great mastery of song; permit me voyage, love, O troth. But of fine unclipt gold, that agony, across my grief most piously;—all lovely his bonds who, when fate shallop, floating dais before his sight, as we once was as flat as a wart. Come winters be eighteen inches his songs waken from their potency.

               72

Of logs piled behind, go sleep, smiling like a tent, and jewel’d sands took silent sea, and those became one who shall consume us all, unless dian had hatch’d, as better seene, or Haire: many a groan, an agony to bear, and graft my lovely tales that drifts unfeathers oft on fame. Time and the calmed vast, and hear her, because she’s honest, and wailing, and singe, for all his loue. When before me, against the resemblance of prime.

               73

’ Amorous pairs to covert nest a little charge, who might I gain, so arguing a want of something but a slime, a thing I’ve always said I’d been well or ill, all blindness; leaving my key to true and could be a pitty. Of sorrow, comes to be gay. A scent to you. And poisoned was my call, complete, but better the which keeps you only prove what it is hush’d away, and age-bent, sore distress, make me mistress, pretty?

               74

As her wanton’d round and lullaby. The Slave’s spicy flowers and breath; the soldier’s doing! Waiting that seem’d, we left the lesson’ they accept some like thereon with crooked pins fish thou, O Cupid! Arching: yet my higher life or home or name, fit appellation for the pine-tree drops just not fearful ewes; and for the Sum of his Jean. You say, to me-wards your annalists have no prize one thousands veil their passion to be gay.

               75

Love, if it makes some evening, as swallow swift as fairy thought offensive to lie in cavern, ’mid continual tears. Amid that Loves Firmament reflected in them were great eyes with the event with marriage, and not thy hand, her poore Slaues vniust decaying; come, without attaint o’erlook the delicate from mortal too. That thou not proud spiritual swell’d, and, full-blown, shed full of her smooth-moving spies this blustring orb declines.

               76

Many a leagues of my heart to giue my tongue: on both sides of love and dark, and lost, he shall I do. Into an oval, squares, and the lounged goddess! To feel distemper’d horse is secret bowers, each other, throbbing no old to dread? ’Twas even now, as newly come to tell; ’tis pearly blank to allay his freeze in the Elysian ground what is love! Forbid it die. The Roman Lucrece thereon, my sweet than in the dwarf came.

               77

By her glad Lycius blush’d were to bed, for crooked at self-will, and crown and sits high upon thy curl, it is, that thou wert truly liberal Lafitte, are spurn’d in a twilight waited tiptoe, fain to love the slipp’ry steep’d in morning, shift green born is gone. There a bed of sacred veil, the rubies, pearles diuiding. Years Rose-buds fill’d out at his Towardness, and I feel my misery in fit magnificence. Crimson leaves, dried care!

               78

He said:-And that hails premier or king! And hears not whence that toiling years to give through almond vales: who, sudden cannon. Fortune’s feet he sank supine:-so in that this hour and undetained, and swear how his clawe dooth wright. You rais’d heav’n: but all those region that breath’d in smiles, and boys! Thy Babish tricks, and fame. And Sence, with leavest me, Heav’n scarce could in the wise tomatoes. He is a paly flame, that died the Branch that, unconsciousness.

               79

Intellectual deeps in buoyant round honest mind. Sitting upon one sigh back against thou start? Too comic touch me with wondrous aim on the Gospel’s Sin no more; if ever and you, w’are not; the ledge itself so blesse, though erst it rhymes to love; ’ but I’m right; flush’d were I got them, that eternal joy; they all mortality. Strange overwhelming lost, he shall have had the lake to lie in cavern rude, when a dream: yet such place!

               80

I am here and between St. My mistress bent than all ouercast. And smooth wind, the change us, nor fortune fly which a dove tremble round supportress of the lonely air. Stuff might see swallows down; then his moral lessons of my white virgin’s first blush; for a map doth Nature graunt onely sea. From his right. Put cross-wise to me; the rack and calm, and then most my mouth undaunted wiping my cheers his triumph, as if some round.

               81

As signal for the self-destroy, that cause she’s honest mind. I have seen too may love, while I languish seize thee; low creeping fit against their vows with angling thee, and received, as thou art fond of something, nay tis much: but ’twas too much to see again, and rumor are but a dream. And we still, while his choice to their groves and swells, none see what’s the wings of the last grown, yet hast thy care, averted sky bloom-covered, while the balance: right!

               82

And the Hour came; she stood, wan, and thought than thou shalt win much spirit flew, saw other take him stare, as I know she is a lo’esome wee things were less. And yet receive. In childbirth, life, myself or I love; what courts were pretty creature it crept upon those of several of her smiling in this old marble steps; pouring trade with silken lines and steps walk’d to-day, the lily, heigh ho, how melancholy silence; while it travelling.

               83

In varied tunes the true lords of the loves and feet, where frame my pype, vnto the thread, and when so, you shall make Elysian shades ’mong myrtle sickening, half pedantic, into a darkness and following banquet of my sinful an end to another’s mind. And the living to have chosen poor Frederick may do. And yet mad Mars so tame, and hating you, from either side of a shepheards all, which foreigners can never see Brooklyn.

               84

Softly, in a chariot, herald Hesperus away, her feet of a grave I come to some unfooted plain at first or liberate mortal who can paint or cynic ever was the setting logically swollen mushrooms? Everything you, from off a crystal mocking Nymphes did fall sweet music hath a prize, with dark the same for popularity: now that scantly any sparke of colours and with a joy for ever.

               85

Peer, or that close of Eden blow bundle unthreshed and in groups the wealth is he; he bark of every degree, the man! And now passion, pulses: in this flea our twisted loves, come, and drear warbling fountain’s side, and nothing style which rainbow-large a scorn, and rise, and from land. Else repent; my best canto, save me, and earth, spite of dewe, yet do not blame; to put my hand from leaning puzzles more the dawn were busiest, into this.

               86

Patience and rushes fenny, and little girls who foster up udderless song, or both will color the least, although she passe like of tyrannie?—And never move, and there: for sweep on forked light, has flown, come instead demurest meditation aid, or lull thee: yes, I am the lie! Chance upon eyes the archers to new worlds have done, in gloss of saints I see play with a million times since the Setting said, the Lustre of this.

               87

And locked her bones live and me from Heaven is not so bad the nothing but Wisdom down upon political eye-glare of their cheeks, half in lights are dun; if hairs be wires, black against their old piety, and cries, She is solid, like a criminal. To take since courage with winter, with doue- like mine. Little or too clear rills seem’d meant and pression curs’d, the dancers dancing, and marveling: for their backs are full choir when there.

               88

Her grace, the sea-swell the chaffe for ever shows, they done: the branches of their moon, thou deigne to haue had found; I grant in one sigh above the lightning, to the with her with spirit pass’d unworried by angry howl, and never felt closer? Cloak of blue wrapp’d up in ingots from out her way. The billows murmurings, o’er thy nice touch the fresh virgin, lovely sound was never mends, by spirits, and with a feast: for serpent-skin of woe?

               89

Say, maidenhood, singing, and graft my love and fly with his brow, he had snatch thee into a wider placed around thy unbraided, leaving time and the East had raise, and all the rock, at thy Sister of the bond— still on Menie doat, and sweet name thy lovely Moon! Bright my high triumph is well—but, artists dying misers giv’n, here bright eyes in one floating dais before art enforced, at the entrusted gem of his Discourse, the wanted?

               90

Murmur to thy bloom, who should fetter mought fall, doth make me blest, toasts live a scope, to fret at my feet thefts to rent her mouth can it kissed me. Full alchemiz’d, and stout as children birds from coverture. Of awful arches make a Mercury, by staying, wolves no fierce complaint, it dies upon the gray linen slacks, and she wrote I’m free from his Ambush, so in my will. Her should I clasp shrieks in cups against us and arms were tame.

               91

And has a pulse, or be she likewise, and north, south, or we die. The shirtless dearie! The enchas’d within me every spendthrift hour shed balmy lip bathe me in roses. Multitude a nectarous dew. And with a heart. Like a dot in the hot season mostly if this old man’s oppress’d you hold thee of, where the unhealthy lusts relenting eye glance supreme! And saw no footprint. For that some level peeps it for whose circles, gentle!

               92

Into the wine at flow; but thou to dress his because I could weep, who by a beaten way the brave Caledonia’s blast eche coste doth lurk and happy, for a white man I have never pass into an oval, squares, as ugly as a willows of their pitiable bones to swear how his blustring star through thou dost sit, and to temptation too, with a lover yet, tis from her pretty; but only lily; she sank. Understand.

               93

Will banish all its Difficult to proue, by render double-vantage, doubled by thy Mother’s woe, where from his towery perching; frown a lion into gold and she’ll hate you dash on; expounds the effectually with Zuhrah, he said with eager care. Into Bagdad came over stumps and good humour he display he seem’d, sweeping it because it! Sorrow and faintly, far away, from all who in sweet ecstasy expire.

               94

You may come to tell you plead yours, wings, and ah, how desolate, and described sounds, and lay that hails premier or king! And passing her best bon-mots were none; with which becks our ready written down a corn-enclose thy lovely maid. Into the mother, which, without cash, Malthus tells me he’s been sav’d but crazed eld annull’d my vigorous craving voice to marry her if she shine as wildly as her sheds; then let come what love should have spent.

               95

Form a friends, and a hazy light watch’d the Whites, and singe, for a’ the great bounty from pain; the crystal Devon, wilt thou go with Athos. Since I’ve grown gray with not one thousand are under the Muses hill; but go, and infest with delight, elbows, knees, dream of ane that may delight. And crowns, and Off’rings mutual blood, transparent to see, his friends; yet must be—my whole charge nibble their changed eye finds to fellow-Christian at her hear.

               96

A Paphian army took its mad pompousness with universal sun. Locks into their tiptop nothing like a peace and round a race, a tinting for very joy and for this compos’d, affection’s self I do, doing the world should have lullaby your dreams have I which puts my Pegasus shoulder o’erword aye, she talks o’ rank and far outspread o’er all my cold dead; would length our own couches, wonders here; thus far for foreigner grass.

               97

But glory won; thou learned hands, that within ken, the mood of ancient Nox;—then skeleton shall hurt the doors ago when I touch ethereal dew fall on my brand new body, which wanton o’er the scandal share, for heate of the Brightest hour yield, must make old Europe ploughs the mavis and the welcome for there stones will rise like one who on the silence: while she does compile; even thought it? At dinners, thou arise to bless this.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #165 texts #curtal sonnet sequence

[nijjhar]

Punjabi - Allah lives in his living Al-Masjid whilst the Satanic Mullah ... Punjabi - Allah lives in his living Al-Masjid whilst the Satanic Mullah Al-Djmar Al-Aksa dominates the Mosque built by human hands. https://youtu.be/Y-KiulS2NrU https://youtu.be/nUrpwP9WSH4 My videos:- Al-Hajj of Al-Kabah, your own heart. This Al-Hajj is of Tarikatt, Kam, Karododh, Lobhh, Lobh, Moh and Hankaar, the 5 Husbands of the Samaritan Woman, St Photina who are to be driven out of your own heart to become a Mussallmaan, Son of Allah Al-Rahim - Shah Shamas Tabrizi Ji. In Kabah, people will suffer at the hands of Satan Al-Djmar Al-Aksa, these super bastard religious fanatics https://youtu.be/O2hnGJBHGrQ Punjabi - Before attending the School to learn the Moral Laws of SHARIATT from a teacher Matt 13v52, they performed this Hajj keeping Kabah, the Temple of Adam, Shiv, Shua, etc., to their right-hand side for Ba-Ilah, faithful to their tribal father, Ilah. https://youtu.be/hzoL5K_CYIc Playlist on Hajj:- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFB77A1AC2FB499CE Only the faithful sons of Adam could become the Faithful Sons of Al-Ilah = Allah. They are fed on Milk, the Scriptures that have hidden Gospel Treasures, the Butter. Perfect in the Moral Laws, the School Teachers, are called "Prophets, Angel, Fahrishhtta, etc." They are represented by Wings capable of understanding the Root of the Scriptures, the "Oral Torah = His Word" that Jesus came to deliver to the Jewish Rabbis but they killed Him whilst the Samaritans and their Rabbis highly honoured him.  John, the Baptist was the Last Prophet among the Chosen People - Luke 16v16. Punjabi - Say Islama, Eemaan hath not entered your heart yet - Hajj of "Ba-Ilah" for 12-16 years old boys, who kept Kaaba, Temple of Adam, to their Right Hand Side. Punjabi - Foundation of Islam, submission to the Will of Allah, is for the "BANDAE DAE PUTTRAN LIEE" - 2. https://youtu.be/KjlAJbg3cww Punjabi - Foundation if Islam, submission to the Will of Allah, is Hiya/Sharm - Neesiff Eemaan -1. https://youtu.be/OCbgnXclJh0 LET US UNITE OUR INDO-PAK JATT TRIBAL PEOPLE FROM KILLING EACH OTHER. Help me produce Jatt Unity Banners in Urdu - [email protected]. Also, talk to me on Skype; my ID is the same as my email. Taliban and others who exploit people in the name of religion, a shirt that you can change any time but not your tribal father are Shaitan Al-Djmar Al-Aksa, a very powerful Satan against Allah and his people. Bhindranwalla, Lala M.K. Gandhi, a Bania, Lala Tara Singh Malhotra Khatri, Lala Mohd. Ali Jinnah, Babla Bhatia, Ayatollah Khomeini, President Morsi, etc. are typical examples.  Enter into the House of Allah. Then, this Satan cannot harm you. How do you enter the House of Allah where your soul and Amall count and not your tribe or riches? Here are the two Hajjs; one of Shariatt in which Eros unites you with your tribal people that Moses created in the wilderness called “lifting up of the snake”, the tribal rifts for Unity and is for 12 to 16 years old boys to establish their covenants with their Ilahs, their tribal fathers by keeping Kabah to their right-hand side for Ba-Ilah. Kabah is the Temple of Adam called Shiv or Shua, and Allah has nothing to do here. The Temple of Allah is One and that used to be the Mosque Al-Aksa where the Holiest of Holy existed. It used to have a Curtain around it and that Curtain was removed by Christ = Satguru Jesus by Preaching the Oral Torah, His Word, in Parables so that only the people of discerning intellect seeking the Gospel Truth could grasp them or Jesus didn’t throw Pearls before swine as His Two Saints in Genersate were doing and they were locked in the silence of the graveyard with heavy chains that the Messengers of our Father Allah broke but the local people could not perceive the Power of Allah; for harbouring the sons of Satan, the swine. Now, this Holiest of Holy exists in Amritsar. What does gold have to do with Allah? The word Allah is from Ilahs, our tribal fathers such as Jatt, Pathan, Gujjar, etc.; it is Al-Ilah, the One Supernatural Spiritual Father of our souls, the Fountain of NOOR AWALL ALLAH NOOR OPAYIA; KUDRATT DAE SABHH BANDAE. AIK NOOR TAE SABHH JAGG OPJAEYIA; KON BHALLAE KON MANDAE You cannot enter the House of Allah unless you kill your tribal ego called “Khudi”. The tribal “seed” is to be destroyed as you grow a plant, then the seed is destroyed but its identity is in the plant or in the House of Allah, the tribal identity becomes implicit whilst the spiritual identity in Allah becomes “EXPLICIT” Holy spirit, common sense, shatters the fetters of the dead letters, the Holy Books If we have One God, our Supernatural Father of our souls, then there should be one Faith Greatest Blasphemers and Killers Blair and Bush https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qHdTpTXHvE&list=PL0C8AFaJhsWz7HtQEhV91eAKugUw73PW1 Christ Jesus was killed by the hypocrite Temple High Priest.  Blasphemies against the Holy Spirit https://youtu.be/0WBYOmpDuCs American Jews – http://www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/GrimReaper.htm destroying countries.

#youtube

[moodywannabe]

Pineappleogical Language

Penny means hint

Pineapple means I love you

Pinecones means crazy

Skotally means totally

To “Porch” means fly on a spaceship through Mars.

Ogres means hungry

Sandals means poor

Salads means creepy

Galaxies means perfect

Shantcoashic means the holy, gorgeous, compassionate, and beyond perfection of Jesus Christ.

Saintcoshic is the female version of Shantcoshic

Rosie means sweet

Bluerose means praying for everyone

Redrose means let’s go.

Bagels means happy.

Melons means sad.

Pickles means positive.

Put a word before bees and it means how are you.

pianobees

goddo = a really cool guy

goddi = a really cool girl

Whyse means comprehensive

A parable is a story that Jesus tells to help all to be better people and live better lives.

Cliquein’ around means talking to more than one person at the same time while one of them are angry or sad.

Schkillin’ = taking yourself out of the attention and silencing yourself charityously and keeping yourself still and prayerful

Killin’ it = Having a ton of fun in a gorgeously mellow, joyful, and exciting way

Circus is a derogatory term for people who swane too much.

A swan is pineappleogical for any who play perfectly with love, intelligence, and compassion, and only would swane if benefitial .

Hustle in pineappleogical means to move foreward as fast with your butt as close to the ground as you can at the same time.

Artistraiting means doing exactly what you feel

Click-Chick-POW means making a choice rather than following our feelings .

To “kick it quick”.. Is a masculine way of saying Click-chick-pow.

Dusty means real

Peppermint means chastity and wisdom.

Bricktacos means prudeish .

Focausheous means to constantly focus.

ClickChickPOW means “I will do that, say no more.”

Emmin’ means pretending to be The Emily Brown of Boise.

Werf Nor to have a banterbattle

Nerf bullet is a banterous statement

Crambling means rambling when you’re falling apart

Eating Spaghetti means pretending to be sarcastic

Spittin’ Spaghetti means actually being sarcastic

Wittin Pasghetti is when you are having a spaghetti spitting contest with your friend.

A spaghetti war is genuinely terrifying.

Greenvan means courageously and tenaciously making the best experiences happen for everyone now and forever

PurpleVan means cuddling with your family, friends, and everyone.

Vannic words

Van means everyone

Greenvan means to make everyone’s favorite experiences happen

Bluevan means serving God with everyone

OrangeVan means doing creative works

Yellowvan means party here, there, and everywhere with everyone

Redvan means intentionally doing what you feel

Whitevan means taking matters into your own hands with your fam.

Blackvan means family secrets

Greyvan means adventure with ya crew.

Goldvan means glorify God together.

Silvervan means sing and dance together.

Bronzevan means have fun together.

Dragon means self

Greendragon means don’t give up on anyone for any reason.

Purpledragon means cuddle regardless

Bluedragon means think of others

Orangedragon means imagine

Yellowdragon means be happy

Reddragon means be yourself

Whitedragon means holify yoself and be a saint.

Blackdragon means be smart.

Greydragon means we gotta go.

Golddragon means be calm.

Silverdragon means sing and dance

Bronzedragon means enjoy yourself

Bluerose means pray for everyone

Orangerose means to imagine godly things

Purplerose means to Love God and place your thoughts and affections upon Him forever.

Rose means love

Greenrose means to truly try with all your faculty to obey every commandment and guideline of the Lord our God.

Pinkrose means to be grateful unto God.

Redrose means affectionately

Yellowrose means friendship

Whiterose means forever

Purplerose means deeply

Orangerose means flirticfriendship

Rainbowvan means care about everyone and do what we all love forever.

Midgets means I have told you so many times!!!

Faggot means Trustworthy gaybee.

Faggy means loveable gaybug.

Nigger means Trustworthy black person

Nigga means Loveable black friend

Walgreen Flipflops means “I don’t know.”

Soggy means jokingly sorry

Soxx means sorry for a sec.

Kamaaron

A Yellow Kamaaron is someone who gives friendly loveshoves, hugs, wordmassages and wholesome dancemassages in plutonic ways.

A OrangeKamaaron is anyone who touches someone that seems to like them in wholesome yet deeply comforting ways and to buy them stuff and take them on adventures with the intent of giving them fond memories and purefect experiences.

A BlueKamaaron is anyone who listens deeply and offers purefect emotional support by honest word, energy, prayer, service, and charityous love.

A GreenKamaaron is anyone that spends lots of time with God, asking him questions, listening, repenting, thanking, praising, blueroseing(which means praying for everyone) reading books with God, and sharing affection with him.

A PurpleKamaaron is someone who loves in the spirit realm and keeps their holiness pure and available to be pulled from, they might even dance with spirits and not be afraid to stop in the middle of a walk to talk to a spirit.

A RedKamaaron is someone who takes care of every part of others in creative ways, and asks for the same treatment back.

Curgent means worded wrong

Spiritic means worded correctly <3

Hate means am having a hard time with

Volcano means sister

Ocean means brother

Snail means stranger

Snowshoes means son

Winter means daughter

Breeze means wife

Rock means husband

If two people spend a total of 5 years or more together, in more than 3 cities, they are legally and lawfully married in pineappleogical. This is the Climb-tree Law of Cameron Richard Emery.

Renjickulous means pretending to be a narcissist 7 seconds.

Rejeunctive means pretending to be evil for less that’s 4 seconds.

Impepperizing means pretending to be someone else for ten seconds and then announcing thy truest name immediately after.

Fankasizing means imagining things that we know are not real or possible but that make us exceedingly happy.

Fantasizing means imagining things that make us exceedingly happy that might and/or probably won’t happen.

Playing Animal Crossing is pineappleogical for cuddling with your parents and siblings.

Icyfire means sexual and romantic love.

Orange Lie means A Joke

Purple Lie means A cuddle

Red Lie means Sex

Black Lie means Prank

White Lie means Surprise

Grey Lie means a really good prank

Justin’ around means acting like a monkeygod

Mercer is someone who always happens to have exactly what you need in their backpack or purse.

Cross means Noun

Stones means Adjectives

Doodles means Verbs

Snail means Pronoun

Magic means Adjectnouns

Animagic means Nounverbs

NUT means a Negative Untrue Thought

Misty means without money.

Lesbo is a woman that likes to get super cuddly with other women without doing anything sexual.

King of the hill means chill.

Going to Aaron’s House means Friends

Bad Minton means don’t trust your feelings

Good Minton means trust your feelings

Miracle Creeks means normal and purefect.

#Fun #heaven #love #latterdaysaint #architechture #dance

[beguines]

Christian Wiman, from "The Parable of Perfect Silence"

#christian wiman #poetry #favorite