#partofthemain

“I’m sorry I’m not familiar with what a corn chip is.”

“You cultural HOG.”

@partofthemain ha risposto al tuo post “A cat came into my house last night and ate the rest of my cheese...”

" There's a lot of things wrong this, but I'll start with this: you do know cheese is bad for cats, right? "

[uh oh]

That’s probably why it puked on my MacBook. It actually makes a lot of sense.

[wincing...inhale... like when you know you fricked up]

a bad ppt presentation on @partofthemain

{ The gift arrives in the afternoon, neatly wrapped in brown paper and string. Upon opening, Peter will find a leather bound journal. When opened, there is a message on the first page. }

“Peter. We’re all young once. Perhaps these will serve as guidance to avoid these troubles in the future, or will help you when you end up in similar situations of your own. - Edward.”

{ As Peter flicks through the book, he will find a collection of hand written stories from Edward’s youth. Stories of seeing Viking longboats in Lindisfarne, and of childish adventures of pranking Norman nobles before Edward grew too old and serious. A small tale of holidays in Jersey, and learning the sail a boat for the first time. Some stories are only a page or two long, and others go on in length, but each one is titled and dated (some down to the day, others the year or the century it took place). On the back page, there is another note for Peter. }

“When we are gone, we are remembered through story and song. Make sure to tell your own to the people you hold close.”

In skimming over the first few pages, Peter realises almost right away what this book is, and more importantly, what it means. He holds it close to his chest, almost furtively, as if it were something he thought he wasn’t allowed to read, and doesn’t dare open it again until he’s shut away in his room at the bottom of the north tower. 

(As chance would have it, the very same room he’d mentioned dragging his waterlogged carcass up into, during his story told to Edward, but awareness of the coincidence is lost on him, distracted as he is.)

There’s one invisible story, though, one that Peter discovers right away without even really looking for it, one which hides between the elegant lines of all the others: the story of Edward having written them.

He imagines Edward alone at a desk maybe, most likely working on his gift over the course of many days or maybe even weeks, at times alone in reverie, sifting through the labyrinthine library that his brother’s memory must surely be, collecting the suitable ones and masterfully transmuting those memories into stories, all just for the sake of conveying them to Peter.

It brought upon him an emotion quite unnameable, one which he wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

And in his reading through the first few stories, Peter often finds himself compelled to bookmark the page he’s on and slam it shut, pacing circles around his bedroom to let his thoughts catch up to him and vent out the energy he’d worked up in the meantime, only to suddenly be done with that and leap right back into whichever story he’d left off on.