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[Voice | Accidental]
[There's a quiet sound of pages rustling... And if you listen closely, a soft voice. Neil is reading poetry to himself, because there's nothing else he can do, today... No one sees him, no one seems to hear him. He's got no idea that he's recording.]
Their spirits beat upon mine
Like the wings of a thousand butterflies.
I closed my eyes and felt their spirits vibrating.
I closed my eyes, yet I knew when their lashes
Fringed their cheeks from downcast eyes,
And when they turned their heads;
And when their garments clung to them,
Or fell from them, in exquisite draperies.
Their spirits watched my ecstasy
With wide looks at starry unconcern.
Their spirits looked upon my torture;
They drank it as it were the water of life;
With reddened cheeks, brightened eyes
The rising flame of my soul made their spirits gilt,
Like the wings of a butterfly drifting suddenly into sunlight.
And they cried to me for life, life, life.
But in taking life for myself,
In seizing and crushing their souls,
As a child crushes grapes and drinks
From its palms the purple juice,
I came to this wingless void,
Where neither red, nor gold, nor wine,
Nor the rhythm of life is known.
[There's a low little sigh.]
Minerva Jones...
[The post trails off into silence.]
[ooc; AFFECTED! Neil is invisible and relatively insubstantial; the best he's managed to do is pick up one book to read, Edgar Lee Master's Spoon River Anthology. 'Cause being mean to dead kids is fun. The amount of effect he has on the tangible world waxes and wanes a little, so some responses may be incomplete or accidental, to add to confusion ♥]
[There's a quiet sound of pages rustling... And if you listen closely, a soft voice. Neil is reading poetry to himself, because there's nothing else he can do, today... No one sees him, no one seems to hear him. He's got no idea that he's recording.]
Their spirits beat upon mine
Like the wings of a thousand butterflies.
I closed my eyes and felt their spirits vibrating.
I closed my eyes, yet I knew when their lashes
Fringed their cheeks from downcast eyes,
And when they turned their heads;
And when their garments clung to them,
Or fell from them, in exquisite draperies.
Their spirits watched my ecstasy
With wide looks at starry unconcern.
Their spirits looked upon my torture;
They drank it as it were the water of life;
With reddened cheeks, brightened eyes
The rising flame of my soul made their spirits gilt,
Like the wings of a butterfly drifting suddenly into sunlight.
And they cried to me for life, life, life.
But in taking life for myself,
In seizing and crushing their souls,
As a child crushes grapes and drinks
From its palms the purple juice,
I came to this wingless void,
Where neither red, nor gold, nor wine,
Nor the rhythm of life is known.
[There's a low little sigh.]
Minerva Jones...
[The post trails off into silence.]
[ooc; AFFECTED! Neil is invisible and relatively insubstantial; the best he's managed to do is pick up one book to read, Edgar Lee Master's Spoon River Anthology. 'Cause being mean to dead kids is fun. The amount of effect he has on the tangible world waxes and wanes a little, so some responses may be incomplete or accidental, to add to confusion ♥]
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