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xaaraI read today. All day. I got up at nine this morning, opened the first book I saw (A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court), and started from the beginning, going clear through to the end. Then I picked up The Pushcart War, followed in short succession by So Long a Letter and Boyhood.
After a short pause for a handful of pretzels and a glass of orange juice, I started reading Dancing Lessons, which I've been meaning to begin for a long time. In case you're a Buffy fan and haven't stumbled across these three magnificent - well, alternate seasons, really - you have to read them. They're awesome awesome awesome, and several times during the day they almost convinced me to quit writing altogether and just start reading full time.
But I have a drabble to write, so...
<<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>>
Giles
One of the first lessons a watcher learns is how to separate truth from illusion. The world in which we operate is fraught with dreams masquerading as reality; it is our duty to assist those in capable of making the distinction.
The Buffy-shaped robot that Willow has repaired is a travesty. It is not Buffy. And yet, a part of me wishes that it were.
I cannot allow myself to think that way. It is a tool, no more, no less.
A tool whose voice undoes me, whose face cripples me. This cannot continue. This illusion has no place here.
After a short pause for a handful of pretzels and a glass of orange juice, I started reading Dancing Lessons, which I've been meaning to begin for a long time. In case you're a Buffy fan and haven't stumbled across these three magnificent - well, alternate seasons, really - you have to read them. They're awesome awesome awesome, and several times during the day they almost convinced me to quit writing altogether and just start reading full time.
But I have a drabble to write, so...
<<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>>
Giles
One of the first lessons a watcher learns is how to separate truth from illusion. The world in which we operate is fraught with dreams masquerading as reality; it is our duty to assist those in capable of making the distinction.
The Buffy-shaped robot that Willow has repaired is a travesty. It is not Buffy. And yet, a part of me wishes that it were.
I cannot allow myself to think that way. It is a tool, no more, no less.
A tool whose voice undoes me, whose face cripples me. This cannot continue. This illusion has no place here.
