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From Heaven they fell. chapter 1
If you want to ready more leave a comment. when a hundred people comment I will publish chapter 2
The gods were struck to coin.
Part 1. From Heaven They Fell
Chapter 1. That Ruffian Malcolm.
Malcom Delrio was what they called him. His friends called him Mal. And being a man, a lad really, who was a prudent and good fellow. His father loved him; teaching the lad all the ways of his labor. His mother smiled upon him approving of his every gesture and triumph. Their neighbors hailed him in the street for no other reason for the joy his simple love lit in their hearts.
When the old men sang he would lustily sing along. When a man needed help he would lend his back and wit until the burden was liftable. And with his friends, for he had many, but with those he held dear he would go out and do daring as all young men do.
In the evening he would sit at the gambling tables with his father and his father’s friends drinking, telling stories through thick tales of tobacco smoke. Laughing at the old jokes and each turn of phrase that drinking would create a new mistake to be merry about. And yet bowing their heads in the silent defeat of hard times. But always heading home, head held high, not alone because their spirit, though sodden in beer, was full of the not-alone. And with a full spirit they went tottering home to their wives or mothers like orphans to their foster home.
They would stop at any neighboring hallowing to talk a moment and the women and girls would kiss the young lad. This was the way of things. But where from does custom come? Custom is a short cut to clarity. If by calamity, the calamity is celebrated by the survival method. No need to survive again; but to revel in survival is the sharing in a golden gratitude for having passed through it. But for this method of customary kiss? Because, I imagine, we all must survive love. And when life is slow and affection merely a custom: what then is Love?
The Old grow old by knowing that a longing youth will often mistake affection and its caresses. By misidentifying the signs can build the foundation of their life upon a mirage. Marriage can either be the ends or the means of affectionate life; both are vapors unable to hold love. And if it cannot hold love there can be nothing built here that will last with any satisfaction. But if a touch is a vapor; reasoning is a cold ghost. To save the young the heartache we need to show their contrivance is hollow before a foundation of life collapses. Like a bank built upon...
The gods were struck to coin.
Part 1. From Heaven They Fell
Chapter 1. That Ruffian Malcolm.
Malcom Delrio was what they called him. His friends called him Mal. And being a man, a lad really, who was a prudent and good fellow. His father loved him; teaching the lad all the ways of his labor. His mother smiled upon him approving of his every gesture and triumph. Their neighbors hailed him in the street for no other reason for the joy his simple love lit in their hearts.
When the old men sang he would lustily sing along. When a man needed help he would lend his back and wit until the burden was liftable. And with his friends, for he had many, but with those he held dear he would go out and do daring as all young men do.
In the evening he would sit at the gambling tables with his father and his father’s friends drinking, telling stories through thick tales of tobacco smoke. Laughing at the old jokes and each turn of phrase that drinking would create a new mistake to be merry about. And yet bowing their heads in the silent defeat of hard times. But always heading home, head held high, not alone because their spirit, though sodden in beer, was full of the not-alone. And with a full spirit they went tottering home to their wives or mothers like orphans to their foster home.
They would stop at any neighboring hallowing to talk a moment and the women and girls would kiss the young lad. This was the way of things. But where from does custom come? Custom is a short cut to clarity. If by calamity, the calamity is celebrated by the survival method. No need to survive again; but to revel in survival is the sharing in a golden gratitude for having passed through it. But for this method of customary kiss? Because, I imagine, we all must survive love. And when life is slow and affection merely a custom: what then is Love?
The Old grow old by knowing that a longing youth will often mistake affection and its caresses. By misidentifying the signs can build the foundation of their life upon a mirage. Marriage can either be the ends or the means of affectionate life; both are vapors unable to hold love. And if it cannot hold love there can be nothing built here that will last with any satisfaction. But if a touch is a vapor; reasoning is a cold ghost. To save the young the heartache we need to show their contrivance is hollow before a foundation of life collapses. Like a bank built upon...
