an asexual connection of artistic spirits

Come sit with me, a moment unsheathed, I offered a chair and took my own, staring coldly into her aging young eyes, feeling the discomfort that separated our souls, so distant, forever distant, an eternal arms length, hardly reached with eager efforts, to pull the truths from a suicide girl’s existence, a yearning, a quest for truth, a search for connection. I touched her hand, she pulled back instinctively, then as thoughts worked through her fears, settled into peace, fingers pushed back to take hold of mine. An electric spark burned our senses in an asexual connection of artistic spirits.

David Cain, Song of Songs

faster than I thought

At day-break, the three mast-heads were punctually manned afresh. “D’ye see him?” cried Ahab after allowing a little space for the light to spread. “See nothing, sir.” “Turn up all hands and make sail! he travels faster than I thought for; — the top-gallant sails! — aye, they should have been kept on her all night. But no matter — ’tis but resting for the rush.”

Herman Melville, Moby Dick

in fee simple for ever

To curb this inconvenient (which he concluded due to a suppression of latent heat), having advised with certain counsellors of worth and inspected into this matter, he had resolved to purchase in fee simple for ever the freehold of Lambay island from its holder, lord Talbot de Malahide, a Tory gentleman of note much in favour with our ascendancy party.

James Joyce, Ulysses

sedately in the seminude

Actually, the promise Mrs. Haze had made was a fraudulent one: she had not told me that Mary Rose Hamilton (a dark little beauty in her own right) was to come too, and that the two nymphets would be whispering apart, and playing apart, and having a good time all by themselves, while Mrs. Haze and her handsome lodger conversed sedately in the seminude, far from prying eyes. Incidentally, eyes did pry and tongues did wag. How queer life is! We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo.

Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

my cornflower blued eyes

Understanding uniting and dividing. I came each evening to search within the drunken hours for something to soothe the depths of my creative soul. Every night a slow descent into darkness, into drunkenness, into a cool calm release as my voice strengthened and slowly failed while the crowd swirled around me. I wore a loose white shirt, ruffled the blouse of a romance’s pirate, my hair dropping long curls down my shoulders, shaken loose to surround my cornflower blued eyes, piercing the darkness to stare hard into the long list of songs from before my time to past my time.

David Cain, Song of Songs