jchrisobrien (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jchrisobrien) wrote2002-08-05 12:16 pm
jchrisobrien) wrote2002-08-05 12:16 pm
Pressing forward
Another reminder of how well a game can come together. The players started out in different locations, and slowly were drawn together. Each of them got little pieces of the puzzle. Dice were rolled, and the Fates were cursed. There was copious amounts of good role playing, tense drama, and some inspirational plays by our heroes. In the end, they triumphed, but at what cost? I suppose the rest of the group will find that out this Friday...
............................
I am well and truly tired. The glass which once held so many different zinfandels now holds ice wine. It is clean and has no bouquet, no aftertaste, and you have to drink an awful lot of it before you get sick. Fingers are running through my hair, and conversation flows. I listen and don't say much, not because I can't, but because I shouldn't. I am guest in a confessional, and it is inappropriate to just blurt out what's on your mind. The air is cold and humid here, but far better than the rest of the house. I venture out from time to time to refill my glass, sometimes with something darker. The heat latches on to me like gnats, like smoke. Pushing into the main room is a physical effort. But it is done, and I reward myself with cheese and pie and just a little more zinfandel. Then a quick trip to the back, where real smoke curls up through the light and is swallowed by the night. The night consumes everything. I walk some more and end up back in the cold, in the confessional. The bed creaks under my weight, I lean back and rest my head on a shoulder, and the words continue to flow.
............................
I am well and truly tired. The glass which once held so many different zinfandels now holds ice wine. It is clean and has no bouquet, no aftertaste, and you have to drink an awful lot of it before you get sick. Fingers are running through my hair, and conversation flows. I listen and don't say much, not because I can't, but because I shouldn't. I am guest in a confessional, and it is inappropriate to just blurt out what's on your mind. The air is cold and humid here, but far better than the rest of the house. I venture out from time to time to refill my glass, sometimes with something darker. The heat latches on to me like gnats, like smoke. Pushing into the main room is a physical effort. But it is done, and I reward myself with cheese and pie and just a little more zinfandel. Then a quick trip to the back, where real smoke curls up through the light and is swallowed by the night. The night consumes everything. I walk some more and end up back in the cold, in the confessional. The bed creaks under my weight, I lean back and rest my head on a shoulder, and the words continue to flow.
sinister wine
Then I realized you must be talking about ice water.
The confessional sounds sinister. I'm glad I didn't enter. The rest of the evening was quite wonderful, though (what with F feeding me cherries and all) :-)
--Andrea
Re: sinister wine
The confessional was simply intimate conversation. Both good and bad. It was all part of a very good evening for me. I must buy more of that wine that I brought!