Status Updates From A Song of Stone

: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alea_ia...

Oh, I know, we all change, every day, and each morning emerge from our cocoon of sleep a different person, to confront an unutterably alien face, and any illness, and all shocks, age and change us by their given degrees... yet when the illness is past or the shock faded, we rejoin, more or less, the same society that we left, and recalibrate our selves by it.

🏰🔥

Perfect time to drown in Peter Brown's Abacus cover illustration.

🪢

...the cold and the realisation of my own wretched helplessness.

They pull you back down; I see the nightdress thrown up over your head as they force you back against the parapet, your head between two of the stones. There is some shouting and jeering. I find myself biting my lip, only realising that I am doing so when the blood is sucked back into my mouth.

...
...

The men are shouting and yelling, calling on me to come out. I try to rise, but then fall back, paralysed by...

I close my eyes.

Not here. Not here...

...just something to be got rid of. Just stuff.

...genitals, then began to pull and stroke my sex. Moistened, encouraged, my fingers slipped into you, startling me both with that upward swallowing and with the heat discovered. I too swallowed, the pink mouthful of cake reflexively gulped.

You stood up then with a strange gracefulness and lifted your dress to expose flesh from sock-top to navel. I stared, mouth stopped with a sugary pink pulp. You tucked your dresshems under your chin, then reached under my bedclothes and took my nearer hand, guiding it gently to the downy cleft between your legs, and held it there, pressing and softly rubbing back and forth. Your other hand closed around my...

You stood up then with a strange gracefulness and lifted your dress to expose flesh from sock-top to navel. I stared, mouth stopped with a sugary pink pulp. You tucked your dresshems under your chin, then reached under my bedclothes and took my nearer hand, guiding it gently to the downy cleft between your legs, and held it there, pressing and softly rubbing back and forth. Your other hand closed around my...

🎹

...
...

'You really think so? I thought it an improvement. It's just a tune, after all. Nothing with a life.'

...are thrown into our guest-room beds; bellyfuls of wine and food are thrown up into the courtyard, toilets, vases and trays.

The once outraged maids and matrons from the camp outside now stagger and whirl, squawking inebriately, opening their unproud mouths and legs to accommodate the lieuten-ant's men.

...
...

One of their number loses a tray-race down the stairs and is carried head-high through the opened gateway - the concerned husbands and parents outside scattered by a sky-directed shot or two-and thrown into the moat. The women...

'Don't you, worry, Abel,' the lieutenant tells me, patting my shoulder. 'I'll be nice as nice. She nods to the loud ballroom and presses me on the back. 'Off you go, now," she says, then turns on her heel and skips upstairs.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feu_de_...