[Time. Time is a peculiarity. He has too much of it on his hands, but it never feels like enough. Like now, for instance, when he doesn't have the time to ask after her meaning before she's gone, just like that, the only thing left in her wake the verse she dangles tauntingly like a carrot before a hare. He reads the lines to himself, not recognizing their source. She'd meant it for him. But why?
It takes more time to research the author in the library, more than he'd like. Eventually he uncovers the lines are a translation from a larger, which leads him to the original source, a Spanish poem written long after his time.]
A marble slab is saved for you
[His finger traces the words, seeking her purpose in showing him this particular piece.]
And other men are also dreams of time, not hardened bronze, purified gold. They’re dust like you; the universe
[He stops, pausing in place, his intake of breath barely more than a thin whisper.]
is Proteus.
[Yes, this had been meant for him and him alone. With that single word, there can be no doubt of that.]
no subject
It takes more time to research the author in the library, more than he'd like. Eventually he uncovers the lines are a translation from a larger, which leads him to the original source, a Spanish poem written long after his time.]
A marble slab is saved for you
[His finger traces the words, seeking her purpose in showing him this particular piece.]
And other men are also dreams of time,
not hardened bronze, purified gold. They’re dust
like you; the universe
[He stops, pausing in place, his intake of breath barely more than a thin whisper.]
is Proteus.
[Yes, this had been meant for him and him alone. With that single word, there can be no doubt of that.]