[He watches with an eye that is both impartial and yet not, one that takes stock of each peculiarity and deviation struck by the man with the midnight skin before weighing his judgment. His mouth moves a half pace behind his eyes, his ears, his brain.]
Well, I don't much care for mushrooms either way.
[They belong ladled over beef in a thick sauce, not clutched in the hand like an apple. The suggestion that the fungus might unhinge from reality the one who ingests it, unhinge him from time unlike the broken watch's ticking which kept him marching, is startling. It inhabits an alien territory in his brain, a place of forgetting where memories disappear as smoke and haze, not cling like the sickly scent of honeysuckle painting his throat. Quentin watches now to see how the man might change with heat-oppressed brain drawing daggers from the air and ghosts from the grave.]
no subject
Well, I don't much care for mushrooms either way.
[They belong ladled over beef in a thick sauce, not clutched in the hand like an apple. The suggestion that the fungus might unhinge from reality the one who ingests it, unhinge him from time unlike the broken watch's ticking which kept him marching, is startling. It inhabits an alien territory in his brain, a place of forgetting where memories disappear as smoke and haze, not cling like the sickly scent of honeysuckle painting his throat. Quentin watches now to see how the man might change with heat-oppressed brain drawing daggers from the air and ghosts from the grave.]