[What drives a man to hate shelves in this way? What motivates him to glower with a glower that would peel paint from wood, if such a thing were possible?
Captain Jack Sparrow isn't certain. He has only come into the shop for a bit of rope, after all -- not to spew venomous hate at lack.
For what is lack but the absence of things that we truly want? Jack knows that feeling, but it is not hate: it is wistfulness. And this large man, he decides, can never truly be wistful. Not with that beard, anyway.
A man who hates shelves can also never be wistful. That would be a fact of life, right up there beside never insert the business end of a fine bean up your left nostril. A HURTING kind of truth. A sordid, mucky, solid kind of truth that gets stuck to your boot and never comes unstuck. Makes that stucky-wonky sound every time you take a step, as though to always remind you of itself and never let you escape from its bitter truthiness.
Like treacle.
Jack stares angrily at the shelves also. He hates treacle.]
no subject
Captain Jack Sparrow isn't certain. He has only come into the shop for a bit of rope, after all -- not to spew venomous hate at lack.
For what is lack but the absence of things that we truly want? Jack knows that feeling, but it is not hate: it is wistfulness. And this large man, he decides, can never truly be wistful. Not with that beard, anyway.
A man who hates shelves can also never be wistful. That would be a fact of life, right up there beside never insert the business end of a fine bean up your left nostril. A HURTING kind of truth. A sordid, mucky, solid kind of truth that gets stuck to your boot and never comes unstuck. Makes that stucky-wonky sound every time you take a step, as though to always remind you of itself and never let you escape from its bitter truthiness.
Like treacle.
Jack stares angrily at the shelves also. He hates treacle.]