( Crisp, like winter's first snow, gaze cutting. In this, as in swordplay, he does not hesitate: there is a cruel finality to deception, a constant and committed art. Man betrays himself when he shaves the edges of his being to become something a piece of folded pergament. A plaything, an artifice.
There can be no divorce of shape and substance. You are what you claim yourself. He will not be, shake of his head subtle and drained, and him a residue against the lavish garishness of the inn's marital suites — he will not be without harmony. A jostled note. Punctuation. )
Men are their truths. ( What is there to say? Embittered: ) We are not wed. Why deceive her?
no subject
( Crisp, like winter's first snow, gaze cutting. In this, as in swordplay, he does not hesitate: there is a cruel finality to deception, a constant and committed art. Man betrays himself when he shaves the edges of his being to become something a piece of folded pergament. A plaything, an artifice.
There can be no divorce of shape and substance. You are what you claim yourself. He will not be, shake of his head subtle and drained, and him a residue against the lavish garishness of the inn's marital suites — he will not be without harmony. A jostled note. Punctuation. )
Men are their truths. ( What is there to say? Embittered: ) We are not wed. Why deceive her?