yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
—William Shakespeare “Macbeth”
BREAKER 256
----
Au clair de la lune,
L’aimable Lubin;
Frappe chez la brune,
Elle répond soudain :
-Qui frappe de la sorte ?
Il dit à son tour :
-Ouvrez votre porte,
Pour le Dieu d’Amour.
False Author was never me,
and yet I could remember the words:
Find Author, and my time in the Hives would be at its end.
My punishment would be at its end.
I could go back on patrol, limit the killings,
wash the blood of children from my hands.
But still, I was caught at a cross-roads.
Reveal False Author as Author, and lie,
and my torment would be at an end.
But I would lose my method of distributing
my message to the Camps, the second I was taken from the Hives.
Would I distribute more messages to the Camps after this tragedy?
Could I?
Reveal False Author as Author and lie,
and I would be safe,
but the rebellion would be ended.
So why the hesitation?
My part in it should be ended.
I should have had a choice.
I wanted to reveal her not because I no longer cared for the revolution,
even though my hand should have been stilled forever.
I wanted to reveal her because I thought her guilty,
of harming the Artists and perverting my purpose.
Because I wanted to see her suffer.
Because I wanted to see her die.
I trusted Blue, but I wanted to hear her confession from her own lips.
Not that she was the original Author, as I knew she was not,
but that she stole the words.
How could one torture another, when one has had the experience of torture?
But this formless play is badly written,
and a thousand tools waited in a windowless room.
I looked down at what I thought was a traitor,
at her dark eyes and curling helpless hands
and could not feel a thing.
So many had died because of you.
You, perverting my meaning and my words.
Blind thing, you thought you were in the right.
You thought that you would live.
You, who look like me,
with all my little tricks.
You knew everything about the fire.
You stretched out your hand and told me that we were the same,
that the boy had lied to avoid the shame of the massacre.
You called others traitor until I stopped your tongue.
Not my boy.
My boy.
Confess.
You, who had the audacity to plead for mercy
Think of the children.
Did you see them after?
In rows upon rows like soldiers?
Should I have shown you them again?
You did not have long to wait.
BLUE
----
After the fire.
Author did not speak.
She would only gaze out the window,
her dark eyes open and empty.
Nothing I did could rouse her.
Not my love.
Not my words.
A hand on a shoulder as rigid as ice.
I heard them one night.
She had crept from our bed
to meet her Descartes.
Her aristo-who-wrote.
I followed her leaden tread,
and watched as Descartes
stretched out his cold arms
as she crumpled into his embrace.
They stood like that for a long while,
her face buried in his concave chest,
his hand cradling the back of her head
as he whispered meaningless comforts.
Descartes.
What had you done to my Author?
My proud conqueror,
the woman who rushed headlong to a fire
was broken.
For the first time I saw my Author weep.
My Author who had been through so much.
Had stood proud and arrogant against the
breakage of time and the torturer’s blade.
I saw my Author break,
and it was in another’s arms.
Descartes.
You were ever my enemy.
Descartes.
And his strange eyes that had been closed
opened to see me,
as coldly indifferent and cruel
as we all would be, were we gods.
But he said nothing,
only stared to see me,
and held her protectively in his arms.
She trusted you, Descartes, as she never would me.
And she loved you, Descartes.
As
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
—William Shakespeare “Macbeth”
BREAKER 256
----
Au clair de la lune,
L’aimable Lubin;
Frappe chez la brune,
Elle répond soudain :
-Qui frappe de la sorte ?
Il dit à son tour :
-Ouvrez votre porte,
Pour le Dieu d’Amour.
False Author was never me,
and yet I could remember the words:
Find Author, and my time in the Hives would be at its end.
My punishment would be at its end.
I could go back on patrol, limit the killings,
wash the blood of children from my hands.
But still, I was caught at a cross-roads.
Reveal False Author as Author, and lie,
and my torment would be at an end.
But I would lose my method of distributing
my message to the Camps, the second I was taken from the Hives.
Would I distribute more messages to the Camps after this tragedy?
Could I?
Reveal False Author as Author and lie,
and I would be safe,
but the rebellion would be ended.
So why the hesitation?
My part in it should be ended.
I should have had a choice.
I wanted to reveal her not because I no longer cared for the revolution,
even though my hand should have been stilled forever.
I wanted to reveal her because I thought her guilty,
of harming the Artists and perverting my purpose.
Because I wanted to see her suffer.
Because I wanted to see her die.
I trusted Blue, but I wanted to hear her confession from her own lips.
Not that she was the original Author, as I knew she was not,
but that she stole the words.
How could one torture another, when one has had the experience of torture?
But this formless play is badly written,
and a thousand tools waited in a windowless room.
I looked down at what I thought was a traitor,
at her dark eyes and curling helpless hands
and could not feel a thing.
So many had died because of you.
You, perverting my meaning and my words.
Blind thing, you thought you were in the right.
You thought that you would live.
You, who look like me,
with all my little tricks.
You knew everything about the fire.
You stretched out your hand and told me that we were the same,
that the boy had lied to avoid the shame of the massacre.
You called others traitor until I stopped your tongue.
Not my boy.
My boy.
Confess.
You, who had the audacity to plead for mercy
Think of the children.
Did you see them after?
In rows upon rows like soldiers?
Should I have shown you them again?
You did not have long to wait.
BLUE
----
After the fire.
Author did not speak.
She would only gaze out the window,
her dark eyes open and empty.
Nothing I did could rouse her.
Not my love.
Not my words.
A hand on a shoulder as rigid as ice.
I heard them one night.
She had crept from our bed
to meet her Descartes.
Her aristo-who-wrote.
I followed her leaden tread,
and watched as Descartes
stretched out his cold arms
as she crumpled into his embrace.
They stood like that for a long while,
her face buried in his concave chest,
his hand cradling the back of her head
as he whispered meaningless comforts.
Descartes.
What had you done to my Author?
My proud conqueror,
the woman who rushed headlong to a fire
was broken.
For the first time I saw my Author weep.
My Author who had been through so much.
Had stood proud and arrogant against the
breakage of time and the torturer’s blade.
I saw my Author break,
and it was in another’s arms.
Descartes.
You were ever my enemy.
Descartes.
And his strange eyes that had been closed
opened to see me,
as coldly indifferent and cruel
as we all would be, were we gods.
But he said nothing,
only stared to see me,
and held her protectively in his arms.
She trusted you, Descartes, as she never would me.
And she loved you, Descartes.
As
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