#write like hell

And I will. Got a play in five acts. No intermissions. No mercy. And a full cast of thirty juves. A 1000-yard freight train, it comes. Hear the horn. See the double suns. Lay yourself down at the crossing, Oskar Kuznetsov, between the crossbucks and boom gates. The rails are cold–the gravel, sharp. Now, brother, feel yourself melting like a Catholic wafer, the Body of Christ, into the glory of my lord's Peacock Tongue.

Gawain nodded, looking down at the sword. Excalibur. It rested awkwardly at Bedivere's side, a little too long for the knight, unwieldy. But Bedivere wore it all the same. There had been those who had questioned by what right he now wielded the Sword of Kings. Those questions had been silenced with a wave of Merlyn's wrinkled hand, and a word barked out in anger. Then the old man had left, striding out of the keep bare minutes after Arthur had been buried. Gawain had never seen such a look of pure despair on any man's face before that moment.

Wasn't she getting too old for these kinds of outfits? She often felt like she was getting too old to be interesting.

"That I keep saying it doesn't make it any less true." Gawain raised a brow. "Nor any truer."

"To return and walk alone," a voice from behind says in my ear, and I freeze, keeping my eyes closed tight. "Carcosa sings for you all," it continues, low and smooth. "Welcome, welcome home." It is the last line of the play, and I stand still, eyes closed, waiting for someone to speak, but nobody does. "Pilar?" I whisper. "Tatiana?" "Weren't you listening?" the voice says. "You walk alone."