[ with weyland in nyc ]

[tragic_mask]

They step through the door, and find themselves on the cracked sidewalk outside of a lively bar. A sign glows: "Blue Owl."

It's nighttime, but the city still glows with all kinds of light, and shakes with the noise of honking, shouting, music, the clinking of glasses, all blending together into the cacophony and symphony of the city.

Melpomene looks around. "Well, we're back... Right where I started."

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[mechanicalswans]

"See what I mean?" he asks, settling in beside her, one arm draped lazily around her shoulders. "Even something so simple as that, you make into poetry."

[tragic_mask]

She rests her head on his chest, watching the night lights.

"Well, that's how I see things. Poetry is... truth. Or maybe truth is poetry. Or both," she muses.

[mechanicalswans]

"It makes it more permanent," he says softly. "A man can do things--wondrous, or cruel--but if there has been no poem, no song to tell others about it, it's almost as though it didn't happen. How many people have lived without living, because they had no poems..."

[tragic_mask]

"Poetry makes a man immortal... and makes him a hero, or makes him the villain, depending on the way the words are spun."

[mechanicalswans]

"And sometimes both," he says.

He takes another drag on his cigarette. "Mine managed a bit of both. A little weighted toward the hero side of things, but not pure."

[tragic_mask]

"The flawed protagonist?" she murmurs.

[mechanicalswans]

"Like that, yes."

He blows a smoke ring, and watches it float upward in the moonlight.

"But the flawed ones, I find, are more realistic and interesting than those who never struggle with themselves."

[tragic_mask]

"The flaws are what make them interesting. Like Turkish rugs, or something."

She watches the smoke arc upwards, follows it with a ring of her own.

[mechanicalswans]

"I think that's what people want of their gods, too," he says, contemplatively. "If your gods are too perfect, you'll feel like you can never even compare--not that they ought to be comparing themselves, but it's human nature. They want to feel that their flaws, their moments of weakness don't make them too imperfect."

[tragic_mask]

"So that explains it then," she says, a touch wryly. "Why we're not omniscient, and the rest."

[mechanicalswans]

"I don't believe that the God of Abraham can exist--and not just a matter of workplace rivalry, but because no living thing can be perfect. Nothing at all can be so perfect, not even a god."

He smiles. "But here we are."

[tragic_mask]

"Certainly it is possible to live in a perfect moment. Even as a god."

She shuts her eyes, and listens to the chirping of unseen grasshoppers and the wind.

[mechanicalswans]

"Its perfection would only be marred by its finite nature, but if it lasted forever... that too would make it imperfect."

He kisses the top of her head lightly, before taking another drag on the cigarette.

[tragic_mask]

She agrees has nothing to add, so she lets the comfortable silence seep in.

[mechanicalswans]

It's a very comfortable silence, to him.

Some silences are awkward and vulnerable, and need to be filled for fear of giving too much away. This one is much more familiar, more gentle, and he knows that that fact should make him uncomfortable, and yet... it doesn't.

[tragic_mask]

"I could fall asleep," she says, after a while, "just like this."

[mechanicalswans]

"In the park?" he asks with a quiet chuckle. "It might get a bit cold, or there might be police. It would be very pleasant to fall asleep here, but more pleasant to fall asleep like this somewhere else."

[tragic_mask]

"Quite sensible. But... it's very comfortable. And I'm immovable," she says drowsily.

[mechanicalswans]

"I've already shown I can carry you," he smiles, stubbing out his cigarette on the grass. "If there's somewhere you'd rather go. If not... if it would be safe here, we can stay."

[tragic_mask]

"I can't say it's a Swiss Bank, but... Well. I could show you my apartment. It's not too far."

[mechanicalswans]

"I defer to you completely, this being your world," he says. "Whichever you'd prefer, we will do, and it will be very enjoyable."

[tragic_mask]

"Well, if you're frightened of the coppers, we might as well run off," she says, smiling.

[mechanicalswans]

"Not afraid," he says with a smile. "Just... cautious. I don't like being arrested, and I'd rather not start a fight here. If you think they won't bother us here, I don't mind staying."

[tragic_mask]

"Well, since we're in New York... we can take a tour. I'd like to show you around anyway. See the apartment I've had for the last... seventy years or so."

[mechanicalswans]

"Seventy years?" he asks, surprised. "I move around every fifteen or so. But then, I imagine a good apartment in New York is much harder to find than an average one in Minnesota somewhere. I'd love to take a tour with you, anyway."