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This may kill me by the end of the day, why do I say such silly things? In the car I drive, you rest your hand on my leg, teasing me, I make you take it back. Rules are rules. As soon as I do I kick myself, mentally obviously, what the hell am I thinking? You want to touch me, I want to touch you, we break every other bloody rule we set, why not this one as well? Because you warned me this would happen of course. That you’d want to ‘indulge’ me, and then you’d feel bad. And then I’d feel bad. And I don’t want to spoil the good memories I have of this by bringing in bad ones. And I want your memories of this to be good as well. Why is life so complicated? *** I park the car at the end of the beach and we walk again. We sit on a concrete block, I take off my shoes, you lie back, I spread out my jacket and sit cross legged looking at you. ‘What?’ You ask. Your hand lifts my dress and you peek underneath. I glare, you lower it again. OK it’s not touching as such but it’s against the. His candle, freshly lit, revealed a man of many accomplishments. His workspace was lined with gold bound editions of the volumes upon volumes of text he authored in areas ranging from logic to mathematics to children’s literature. He had spent many years translating the Bible to his right into four different languages, and his ashen face reflected the rigors of his work. Years had been taken from him and his body reflected every one of those years. He had become as cold and unforgiving as the snow which was falling heavily outside in the bleak English countryside. He set numerous blank pages before him, pages that he felt needed to be filled before the candle burned its last. Opening the drawer, he placed at his left the instruments of his art: an inkwell and a quill, but in the far corner of the drawer was the pistol that had served him well in war and perhaps would find some grand use again. Hunching over his papers he feverishly brought pen to ink and began his inscriptions as.
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