HE YET FELT THE QUIVER OF LIFE. Although the tension in his tortured muscles that he interpreted as proof he was still connected to the flesh had long since fled him, his mind rolled tumbling onward -- a ball of flame in search of a moth. His nose was aflame, the echoing OM-ing exhalation whistling through the phlegmatic red nostrils in assurance that such will be so.
HE WROTE THAT HE WAS YET ABLE TO FEEL THE QUIVER OF LIFE. Cast aside from his body, his limbs's shattered postures already dead to feeling, casting thought aside in moth-dust, he would write that still he felt himself not yet the target, but surrounded by the quiver of life. Yet the quiver was empty, the seven arrows spent. His nose was inflamed. His hands fell upon the bucket, new-drawn from the open well. He wrote that the nose-tip then face followed dipping hands in submersion, in brisk rubbing (accompanied by much burbling), in quick shakes casting away water droplets. The cold shocked into life his warm flesh. His thirst gone, he wrote that he would now draw water from the well.
HE CAME DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN HIGH PLACE. He would return, in full hope of a dream of light and life, satisfying every pleasure of the world below, more than hinting at the power of the dream-world center, where to pick and choose brings life to all and death to none, where one is reborn, inheriting the ritual of renewal, in a life personally meaningful, publicly known.
HE HAD THE FACE ONLY AN ANGEL MIGHT LOVE, she thought as he pressed her down upon the carpet. And, certainly, she was no -- ohh -- angel. That large nose, those tiny, piercing, near-sighted eyes, that curly mop of shitbrown hair and that crooked goatee! those crooked teeth! -- it must be those crooked teeth that give him that twisted, deformed smile, that look of the fallen angel -- there we go, angels -- ohh -- again, yes, something altogether daemonic about that hovering -- ohh -- lingering face.... It's a good thing he didn't try to kiss me, she -- ohh, again -- thought, but went straight for my tits, rubbing his face against them, tonguing the tips through the t-shirt, and now his hands, his bold little handy hands, had found her crotch, were rubbing her cunt against the rough denim material, already her back was arching, and if he ever figured out to to get inside.... Yes, it was a good thing he hadn't tried to kiss her, because if we had ever stopped to look into each other's eyes at that moment, we would probably have both started laughing and would not have been able to stop, -- ohh, don't stop, don't ... stop --