Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness. Wretched is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or upon awed watches in twilight groves of grotesque, gigantic, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft. Such a lot the gods gave to me - to me, the dazed, the disappointed; the barren, the broken. And yet I am strangely content and cling desperately to those sere memories, when my mind momentarily threatens to reach beyond to the other.
I’ve only just read this, thanks to Squash for the rec, but I first though of Ianto when I read it. Oops.
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nothing-rhymes-with-ianto reblogged this from bananasarefarmoreinteresting and added:
Funny thing is, when I perform this, I do it...an accent very similar
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bananasarefarmoreinteresting posted this
