“…my lord
the earth covered in darkness, and I abject then
traversed, winter-grieving, over the sea’s surface.”
-'The Wanderer'-


Beyond, the scene has faded, sunk beneath the distressed surface of some clouded mire.

Then behold, there drift the eyes, transfixed within a transparent image of the haunting face. Confidence stretched into contortion, expressions foreign to him and painful to gaze upon, but I cannot look away. The eyes spark, call, and die. Pieces failing one by one. Beyond rests a gaping mouth, seeping some unknowable blackness into the world. It is cavernous, endless, a fall through eternity. Or is that right?

There is something more. There must be. Yet, entranced by the depths, I cannot help but doubt myself and my authenticity. Is this eternity or nothing, a sudden end versus a fall, and then what can it matter? But, oh, matter, there must be matter. The shifting of the face, the watery scene both real and unreal beyond, the tingling of my own hands, all betray this comforting truth. For I feel myself, I see him, and this unreality can be only temporary, accompaniment to some sensible experience.

Still, I am unsettled, driven nerveless by the grating of his voice, by a rawness otherwise unknown. Something has stolen his power, condemned him, and in this he has met… Met this thing that I cannot see for the thickness of cloud. Only for him has that fog yet parted, only for him, and he has left me behind, to falter on my own, hindered and lost.

And that mist clouds, settles around and among my soul, and I daily feel its quiet squeeze. It has never since left, never ceased to press the question. His voice speaks in these mists, and thus do I find some solace. May it never desert me. May it be my pollution and potion both.



((OOC: Translation figured almost exclusively through use of this site, using Bradley's translation for reference. Feel free to chide, correct, and so on.

Summer is… warm. Sometimes, almost too warm. I’ve passed summers with only the vaguest of notions that the seasons had changed. These were spent on ships, contentedly monitoring and fixing the ship, busying myself with duties and far-off thoughts. Fall would catch me by surprise, and then that, too, would pass. It is amazing how much should so easily slip by.

I don’t know quite what to say about any specific summer. As a boy, I would spend the days of summer mock exploring, believing earnestly (so far as imagination may be considered earnest) that I had found some lost civilization among the nearby groves and streams. The passing of years found a continuance of these adventures, on a broader scale. Perhaps worthy of being called earnest exploration, though I can never be entirely certain. What have I ever found? As much as I have sought to complete those blank spaces, I do not know that I have clarified their secrets. Indeed, I might say that I have only found further questions.

There was a bright summer, once. Warm, not too hot. I took a young woman for a walk along the shore, and there I felt the irresistible swirling of mist. I don’t recall whether I saw her again. I only know that I soon thereafter returned to the sea.

Good evening. You aren't busy, are you? Good, excellent, have a seat, maybe a drink, and perhaps we may tell a few stories? If you don't mind, I've got one that I should like to share… Try to share, that is. You'll find something of interest in it; I feel certain of this. I promise that you will not count this as wasted time.

I am Charles Marlow; call me Charlie, if you prefer. Once--I know not any longer whether this was long ago or recently--this existence made some coherent sense. I remember faces and voices, pieces of machinery that fit together rightly. Then there was a river and a journey, and above all a man of impossible strength. He was a man like no other, a god in his own right, in command and privy to knowledge hidden from nearly all human eyes. Just as quickly as he had appeared, he passed on. I stood beside him at the end. And even now, I feel his presence, though I cannot find its answer.

I have glimpsed the very heart of darkness, and I do not know what to make of it. As much as I may try to shake this feeling, it never ceases to whisper, even scream in my mind. What was it I saw? I want so to believe one thought, but others pull, and I doubt.

And so I doubt and I search. The answer must lie somewhere, and if only I concentrate, if only I think far enough, I may find it. However dark it is, I must see this truth. This unknowing plagues me. I will wander as I have, I will say what I must, and perhaps I will at last see what he saw.