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INFORMATION

Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'

Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.

CONTACT

FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves

CREDITS

Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
To William.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:43 PM

I have often wondered about you.

The first time I caught a glimpse of you a rainstorm had cracked the sky open. Your piece of equipment was not within my view, instead it had been a seeming revelation of a rare occurrence. Your flawless attire sleek with rain, and faded London without her rouge laid bare, captured in your dark, discerning eyes. You appeared to smooth the creases in society, to bring normality to horror. I could not imagine what could have brought you to the crumbling stones lining the walkways, the hard stars for lack of a better view. You were here not for the scenery, for you hardly gazed into the sky, nor paused to hear rain shards plummetting on windows, the buildings, the ground. The gravestones. You were here, only to disappear again after a measly few pages, as unnoticably as you had arrived.

You had left me rapt with wonder, as if I had waited for such a thing all my life.

The moonlight was the spotlight, your slim silhouette outlined, and your shadow. Well, what could I say? It was nothing plainer than a blockade of light. You were never fated to dance as gracefully as the nymphs that haunt the people's dreams. Formal suits were never made for frivolous exchanges between two bodies. I wondered if you would dance, but I doubt you harboured much interest in dancing, or any social event for that matter. You were light and shadow, criss-crossed in ethereal silkwork.

You were calm and collected, and from the deliberate movements I knew you were here only for what you do. Never casting your eyes this way and that. Your countenance set in grim perfection, not a thing of beauty, but a thing of purpose. I wonder how did you feel, at your glimpse of the mortal world. Unsurprised, I think. Yet were you ever astonished at anything? Your features hint at a thousand things I think you already knew. Even speech: your words were evenly articulated, as if every word had streams of thought going before it, assessing it's durability, impact, simplicity. You did not seem like one favouring flowery speech; maybe plain, curt sentences would satisfy you the more. It is necessary, I know. Your glasses only emphasise your intellect; it's not as if it lies unnoticed.

I wonder what your motivation is. It pains me, or amazes me, that you do not seem to have one. Even serial killers are urged on by their dreadful childhood memories. Yet, I wonder what yours is, for an assiduous person, even you seem like a fanatic; a relatively noiseless one, that is. It would be unthinkable if you stated a lacking of one; for then, nothing could distinguish one straight as a ramrod as you from an economical tireless labour; such as a computer.

You don't seem to possess any...bodily desires. Abstemious, possibly, but I wouldn't want to draw any conclusions. I have never seen you smile with satisfaction at anything at all. What do you consider 'fun' or even 'worthwhile'? You won't get hitched this way. Do you care?

You are stoic, and that is quite obvious. I am filled with awe and fascination. It is almost a delusion that I try to grapple with, but like a mist it threatens to vanish away, hence I cannot strengthen my grip. I wish I had an identical self-control, or even half of your sense of duty. Sombre, yet not too much to incur depression.

Your countenance reflects not the rainstorm, but the disquieting thunder is all your own.

I don't know you, nor would I try to discern your truest personality that lies buried beneath that stern, silent facade. I wonder if you are happy. I do not know even what your death scythe does: what a curious instrument it seems. Just plainly knowing and doing enables you to be content, or is it not as what the events seem?

Your perfection scares me, yet fascinates. I am drawn like a cautious moth to a flame. I have never met a man like you.

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