(no subject)

[tristfully]

'Sloe Gin'

The clear weather of juniper
darkened into winter.
She fed gin to sloes
and sealed the glass container.

When I unscrewed it
I smelled the disturbed
tart stillness of a bush
rising through the pantry.

When I poured it
it had a cutting edge
and flamed
like Betelgeuse.

I drink to you
in smoke-mirled, blue-
black sloes, bitter
and dependable.

Seamus Heaney

Aster sent me a bottle.

Who wants to go into the woods with me tonight to find Lukashenko?

Or maybe to find out how we die.

Comments

Aris/Viola

[tristfully]

Do you want to? It's a lot of work and I don't even know what the point is, really. I don't want to impose on you.

Me neither. [...] They don't seem very related. Though, a few months ago, I wouldn't have thought that mysterious cicada shells, Zippy Dip murals, lichen infested records, and Mr. Qualls were all related, so.

Aris/Viola

[arisahn]

i don't mind. it doesn't feel much like work when we're doing it together, anyway. i like being your watson!!

i'm not saying they def aren't related. we just don't know. [......] i want to think it's not as weird or bad as it seems, though. since the school hasn't done anything. is that naive?

Aris/Viola

[tristfully]

And what a wonderful Watson you are. [...] What’s your instinct? I feel like I’ve become obsessed with Qualls and it’s clouding my judgement.

No, it’s not naive. I’m just not sure that the staff realizes how weird things have gotten. I don’t think they can see everything that we do.