We serve an old man in a dry season...

I'd rather see the green flash in the wild than stagnate in the slaughterhouse.
For certain is death for the born

And certain is birth for the dead

Therefore over the inevitable

Thou shouldst not grieve

Odd I should miss his pedantry. Occasionally, anyway.

I find the silence now deafening, in a way that is different from Azkaban. The Dark Rock rises from the blackened sea, and its cells they try and render soundproof- yet, they are not. Fear has sound; it is palpable and vibrant and alive, and it seeps through the invisible cracks and crevasses of Azkaban, making beautiful music for those who themselves fear not.

She is gone. He is quiet and makes no requests at present. I am alone, and it is still. Muggle whores emit acceptable music; however, I tire of their cheapness, their desperation... their utter and complete insignificance. The fate I deliver to a Muggle tart is not one they haven't always expected; thus, the timbre of the music is muted and dull, albeit it enticing through the first several measures.

I fancy a challenge, while I wait: a Muggle of significance. Muggles who matter to other Muggles. Muggles who've a lifetime of success, and happiness, and fellowship ahead of them. There is no victory in gutting someone who isn't seen to begin with- a person who stands in a crowd, but is disregarded... unseen... unnoticed. I can strike such a Muggle down, the blood spreading in a silent pool, and merely watch the crimson footprints lead away as people go about their business, trekking through it without a second glance, leaving only the streaked and crossing trails of the blood of insignificants fading into the distance.

I should rather see an umarred, symmetrical pool, a crowd of people standing around its border, awed and silent in its dominion.

The timbre of ascendency shall undoubtedly be pure and sweet.

Current Mood: bored

Advertisement