Snippet + Haiku

[kasihya]

‘I feel,’ she says.
‘What do you feel?’ he asks her.
‘I don’t know,’ she says.

— Can I tell you a story? — she asks him.

— If you want, — he says, because she’s in one of those moods. She showed up at the shop an hour before closing time and proceeded to reorganize all of the daguerreotypes that he had spent the morning classifying according to year. Whatever obscure system she had decided to use, it wouldn’t be any use from a shopkeeper’s perspective, though he knows better than to explain that to her.

One of these days, he knows this is going to become a problem. One of these days, he’s going to be bothered by the fact that she can walk into his life whenever and however she wants, and he is powerless to stop her.

Right now, he is simply grateful that someone is paying attention to him. In the back of his head, he knows it’s not exactly paying attention to him, it’s more that he’s willing to listen to her and he’s willing to accept it when she tells him strange things and does things that make his teeth ache, so she hangs around and sometimes remembers to let him participate in the conversation.

— Once upon a time, there was a boy, — she begins, jumping up onto the register counter and swinging her legs. — He was very brave, and very kind, but very lonely. He could see spirits, but no one believed him. Everyone thought he was strange, and so he made no friends.

— Are you telling a story about me? — he asks. He is a little flattered; he hadn’t thought she’d noticed.

She gives him a scornful look. — What’d be the point in that?

— I just thought …

— Nah, this boy was named the Black Plague.

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Primavera is my favorite piece of music right now. (Just ignore the obligatory 'What a shame that the world has degenerated to the point that people would rather listen to Justin Bieber/hip hop/Disney Channel/other strawman than this beautiful music. I am a special highbrow snowflake, and everyone else is a sick fuck' top comments, because music is Serious Business.)

In other news, I just want to write lots of Sherlock fanfic, what is wrong with meeeee. This has never, ever happened to me, and it is really distressing! I mean I could, you know, just finish the damn story that I was working on, because I have rarely been so thrilled by my own handiwork before, and I think that then I might be able to focus on important things like finishing my damn novel. It needs to be typed by June so that I can take advantage of Createspace's free offer things, and then I will have free copies! One copy out of which to edit the everliving fuck, one copy to admire from afar, and IDK what I will do with the other three? Maybe I can get away with only ordering two. But the point is that the story must be finished and ordered in time. I suppose it's a good sign that even though I haven't worked on it much in a month, I still don't think it's a stupid idea. I'm still very fond of every character, even the ones that are terrible people(read: everyone except for Tanwen and Aisa). And I'm fond of their story arcs. I am just so totally encapsulated by feelings that I cannot write anything but fluff. (And depression. Also a mitigating factor, it's not fun to write depressing things when you are depressed.)