Thursday, May 15, 2003
“What is it you speak of, exactly?”
“Everything in this room. Empty jars, tins, these dust jackets — even the painted eggshells. Empty vessels all. You collect these things, things without soul.”
“They have souls, Frederick. Just because they were created subservient to some other reason does not mean that they are without individual worth.”
The young man picked up a scrap, tattered and faded. “What use can this possibly be, without the volume it was coupled with?”
“It gives me pleasure. Is that not use enough?”
“Pleasure? This?”
“It is about power, my dear boy. This existed for a purpose, and in its absence I have become it.”
Frederick wished for a glass of whisky, acutely aware that every bottle in the room had long since been emptied. “I despair of ever knowing your mind, Uncle.”
“Are you aware of your own?”
“Everything in this room. Empty jars, tins, these dust jackets — even the painted eggshells. Empty vessels all. You collect these things, things without soul.”
“They have souls, Frederick. Just because they were created subservient to some other reason does not mean that they are without individual worth.”
The young man picked up a scrap, tattered and faded. “What use can this possibly be, without the volume it was coupled with?”
“It gives me pleasure. Is that not use enough?”
“Pleasure? This?”
“It is about power, my dear boy. This existed for a purpose, and in its absence I have become it.”
Frederick wished for a glass of whisky, acutely aware that every bottle in the room had long since been emptied. “I despair of ever knowing your mind, Uncle.”
“Are you aware of your own?”
Comments
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I once was, Uncle but somewhere in the morass of adolescence it slipped away.
Vanlal 
@ 12:40 PM | 2005/07/13
@ 12:40 PM | 2005/07/13
This sounds like Nanowrimo 2003 to me!