and done

“How many notes have you made on this book?” The Mouse chanced a tentative light through the hangar.

“Not a tenth as many as I need. Even though it’s doomed as an obsolete museum relique, it will be jewelled—” he swung back on the nets—”crafted—” the links roared; his voice rose—”a meticulous work; perfect!”

“I was born,” the Mouse said. “I must die. I am suffering. Help me. There, I just wrote your book for you.”

Katin looked at his big, weak fingers against the mail. After a while he said, “Mouse, sometimes you make me want to cry.”

-samuel r. delany, nova


~ by ironcupshrug on 04/11/2011.

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