***
i think, i was rainborn last week. hastily dressed and bleary with drizzle, frightened, and sweating a thin film under a thick scarf, mewing things like Comment Vous Appelez-Vous?, and somewhere out of [a contradiction of] sorts. they say that Fortune plays an awful game; the black knight of the Book of the Duchesse names her his treacherous mistress (For fals Fortune hath pleyd a game/Atte ches with me, allas! the whyle!/The trayteresse fals and ful of gyle,/That al behoteth and no-thing halt/She goth upryght and yet she halt,/That baggeth foule and loketh faire,/The dispitouse debonaire,/That scorneth many a creature!).still, something is forming inside me, tenuous and white and persistent like the tiny knot of a knuckle bone. it is sharp, it is an inward hiss. it is run through with rude allegory, and hardening with honesty and earnestness, and resolve. this, my model of amelioration: faux modernity, the idea that things really have got better. well, Misfortune, resignation is premeditated loss. for better, for worse: the way that things look can change while the words remain the same. licking my lips like flames, slicing the insides of my mouth with a jawful of fangs/i'm a a shake you off though, get up on that horse and ride off with no remorse... and so there are people out there, and i am a newborn knowing nothing of their remarkable, ineffable Fortunes. i will find them, will be after their own hearts.
And this was longe, andmany a yeer
Or that myn herte was set o-wher,
That I did thus, and niste why;
I trowe hit cam me kindely.
Paraunter I was thereto most able
As a whyt wal or a table;
For hit is redy to cacche and take
Al that men wil therin make
***
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