Portal Breach: The Collision of Worlds :: v.4.0


    Isn't paper wasteful?

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    Vassar Jorim
    Kilobyte

    Kilobyte

    Posts : 23
    Join date : 2014-03-31
    Location : Around.
    Level : 1

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    Isn't paper wasteful?

    Post by Vassar Jorim on Sat Jan 31, 2015 10:49 pm

    Time: 13:34 PM
    Date: January 31st, 0005


    Oh no, it was a fire hazard. Then again what wasn't a fire hazard in life. Not many things that a unmotivated Turian could really care to attempt an answer for. He had never actually held a book in hand, like a legitemable leather bound article. It was so...archaic. Old. Out-dated. But frankly, maybe he was just stricken with an iota of curiosity about paper books.

    Entering the library he inhaled to prepare himself for whatever was in store and was met with quiet shuffling of walk and the flipping of paper. And the persistent smell. That musty, smelly smell. He assumed it was the things that covered the place wall to wall. Vassar reached up and scratched a mandible idly, stepping forward and moving out of the way of general wanderers. It was so...big. Sort of underwhelming in a sense, but different than the flashing digital displays to which he wouldn't lie and say they didn't hurt his eyes sometimes. Moving forward he examined the aisle, not really find anything the signs he read to grab his attention. So he did the mature thing and snatched a book from the shelf and took a good hard look at the cover.

    "Marlborough and other Poems."


    Honestly, he had absolutely no idea what that was supposed to mean. Was it like...Dr Seuss? He maybe had heard of it from a human companion once, some earth thing or what not. Dr. Seuss was bright and mildly entertaining. So clutching the book in hand, he found a corner with a table and sat with the book and opened it upon the table and glanced down, beginning to read.

    "When you see millions of the mouthless dead
    Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
    Say not soft things as other men have said,
    That you'll remember. For you need not so.
    Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
    It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?"


    This was NOT Dr. Seuss, not even remotely close. But unfortunately he didn't believe it so his head bent back down hoping the passage broke off into that 'family-friendly' shenanigans.

    "Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
    Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
    Say only this, “They are dead.” Then add thereto,
    “Yet many a better one has died before.”
    Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you
    Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
    It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
    Great death has made all his for evermore."


     
    He did not know why he thought that it would get better if the start was so...so...dismal. No one needed a reminder about war Certainly not he! He had seen the after affects, had to find dead bodies for proper funeral rites! It was a nightmare! Why on earth would someone write about the dead. Flipping as carefully as he could, he stumbled upon the back page where the athours faded picture was displayed and the date (1916) nearly blinded him. It was HOW old? Earth literature was terrifying. But like a shipwreck he couldn't look away and instead continued to read.

    He began publishing poetry in the school journal and won a scholarship to University College, Oxford. Sorley was in Germany in 1914 when World War I broke out, and he was interred for one night in prison at Trier. Making his way back to England, he enlisted in the Army and served in the trenches in France. Sorley was killed in the Battle of Loos at the age of 20. His last poem, “When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead” was discovered in his kitbag after his death.

    The Turian was frozen, eyes fixated on the age of this 'Sorley'. They were the same age. Yet this human had died, and was actually in war, not squandered away somewhere while everyone else went to fight. It was strange to feel some sort of reverence, especially for a human. He rarely reserved that for closer beings to himself. But as it was, everything he had was in better terms gone. It seemed like a waste, as he thought of it, thinking that poems he could have written but instead lost his life to a war that he might've not been cut out for.

      Current date/time is Wed Sep 20, 2017 3:12 am