dark riddle

Daddy's a dark riddle,
Momma's a headful of bees,
You are my little kite,
Carried away on the wayward breeze.

A song for Jien? Could be. (Saiyuki reference, sorry.) I wonder if Jien and Gojyo's father will ever come into the story. He doesn't have to, and if he did it might even devalue his presence in some ways, but . . . one is curious.

That's the problem. Exposition/explanation deflates things, and, unless it's done really well or the facts are good enough to warrant it, may never be quite as good as the hesitation and surmise and doubt and expectation which led up to it.

This was why, in a recent piece of fanfic (a long-running Yami no Matsuei one), I went into everyone's head _except_ Muraki-sensei, the titular villain and frequent psychopath. It was so much better that way. The reader could never be sure.

Did I break the thread or did you break the thread?
Well, at this point, we could ask, who cares?
As for the promises broken and frayed,
It's nineteen years too late for repairs . . .

Astonishing how music sometimes suits mood. Suzanne Vega's very adaptable, mind. You can find all sorts of things in a single CD of hers.

I had an email from a friend that showed he knew about something which I was working on. This was good to hear, as it means I can now talk about it with him. I shouldn't depend on bouncing stuff so much, perhaps, but I do.

but I've concealed a weapon
in a pocket knife attack
all folded up inside until you see the shine
and then you'll want it back

Black roses, or roses so deep a red that they're of a shade which is hard to describe, and soft and rich as velvet. That ought to come into a story somewhere, and in a way that's not the obvious one. Roses that should be private, like the sound of certain tones of voice, or certain shades of laughter, or a streak of sunlight in the afternoon which has flecks of dust falling slowly through it and seems to last forever.

Roses that, in another story, would be fleurs du mal. It's all situational. It depends what the story is.