TE17 Mysterious Montenegro

Arceuil

little pieces. Can you put them back together?”

Outof love, outof desperation, andoverwhelmed by themidnight bleakness of the late winter’s night, he rose from his knees to embrace Laure in her shroud, the lady in the blackveil, which bore witness to her rising from the grave. But the embrace was empty, perhaps lost for just that one touch. Truly, time elapses faster than the ticking of a clock: separate dimensions, and markedly different texts. He wanted to follow her, but the woman with whom he had shared tears was now gone, the darkness gathered again, and there cannot be anything transparent there. It also devoured the pages he had read, lines that had been underscored, smudges in the margins, questionings and oaths, elided details and trepidation. Specters, once so horrible, the next time amiable guests, love to lurk and hide. They are not subject to our obligations and need take no note of our earthly duties. Phantoms are limpid beings, in whose existence both they and we must believe, a mutual deception of the mind and senses, yearning and uncertainties. Phantoms, especially those summoned by poetic language that does not wish to relinquish its loquaciousness, and further affirmed by the gaze of a clairvoyant rake, enter houses and dreams to bring evil; phantoms, whom no morning letter can convey; phantoms, whose sorrow and horror are so great that eyes must open.

When he awoke, he was firmly clenching the book in his right hand.

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