Cocytus is bored. How one can be entirely bored while on the mansion grounds is a mystery even to him but that does not change the fact that boredom has most definitely set in. This is made clear by the fact that he is doing something which he can often be found doing, that is reading Dante's The Divine Comedy while also reciting it. His recitation is, as ever, an entirely separate section from that which he is reading. That is, he is currently muttering a part of the Inferno while reading the Purgatorio. He is not feeling quite up to the irony of reciting the Inferno while reading the Paradiso.

Anyway, all of that is beside the point. The point, rather, is that Cocytus is bored and is therefore open to harassment. Well, not harassment, really, but whatever.

Typist: One of the many openposts I own the world. Anyone is welcome as long as they realize that I am likely to be slow. Speed in replies may also vary depending upon how well he knows or gets along with the person commenting. Trala.

( Image Heavy Meme Sheep )

*is actually smiling somewhat with the ferret perched on his shoulder, as per usual* Well, one good thing's come out of Christmas for once. I feel like myself again.

*is a bit bored and a bit tired and sitting in a window, staring up at a sky that looks about ready to pour something down and yet refuses to open wide, and speaks to himself, quoting something not Dante for once* "Well, what tongue does the wind talk? What nationality is a storm? What country do rains come from? What color is lightning? Where does thunder go when it dies?" *continues staring upward, Caina curled up in a little sleeping ball of ferret in his lap, and wonders if he's truly reclaimed his sanity or if his mind is just pretending*

Typist: So yes. Because I need to at least attempt some vague form of activity for the puppets who will actually talk to me even if no one ever wants to interact with them anymore. Anyone who knows Cocytus, or even those who don't, can feel free to talk to him.

*as he's been spewing numbers throughout random intervals of the day, the typist shall proceed to record this next installment*

Inferno Canto 3:77:5, Canto 7:108:9, Canto 14:116:6, Canto 14:119:3, Canto 14:131:4.
Inferno Canto 3:77:5, Canto 7:108:9, never by name, Canto 31:123:1. Purgatorio Canto 28:130:6...28:131:1? Sins forgotten, good remembered - mistake in a name.

Typist: Canto codes, complete lines of Dante, random medical and psychological factoids. I've been getting them all today. And he's still relatively sane. ...I just don't know.

( Private )

( Lethe Only )

He sits in a window seat in some quiet room of the mansion far off from any noise. There's a little girl curled up in his arms, fast asleep with her head on his shoulder and dirty ragdoll clutched tightly to her chest, and his expression is tired, possibly sad. It's hard to tell, really, but the dim light that creeps in from the half-open door shows his eyes as just slightly off colour. If one didn't know any better, it would appear that, perhaps, he had been crying. In all honesty, of course, he has but there are very few to whom he would admit such a thing. So he stares out at the stars, the child's head on one shoulder and Caina perched on the other, and waits for someone to find them or else for the morning to come.

*is mohawk'd, currently in grungy UK punk-era attire (torn-up t-shirt, tight blue-jeans, Dr. Martens, torn flannel, etc.) and sporting the devestated remains of black nail-polish* *eyetwitch* *scowl and lights a cigarette while Caina climbs up to his shoulder so she can sniff curiously at the gel-encrusted hair spikes*

( FERRET! )

Typist: I'm still amused by the name.
Well, you were the one determined that I name it quickly and you were the one to suggest I use a name from Dante. What did you expect? *scowls* Now where the bloody fuck did the little rat--
Typist: Ferret.
--weasel stash my sodding cigarettes?

*sitting in the window again as the inhabitants of the apartment await the arrival of the typist's family he quotes*

Through me the way into the suffering city,
through me the way to the eternal pain,
through me the way that runs among the lost.

Justice urged in my high artificer;
my maker was divine authority,
the highest wisdom, and the primal love.

Before me nothing but eternal things
Were made, and I endure eternally.
Abandon every hope, who enter here.

These words their aspect was obscure I read
inscribed above a gateway, and I said:
'Master, their meaning is difficult for me.'

And he to me, as one who comprehends:
'Here one must leave behind all hesitation;
here every cowardice must meet its death.

For we have reached the place of which I spoke,
where you will see the miserable people,
those who have lost the good of the intellect.'

And when, with gladness in his face, he placed
his hand upon my own, to comfort me,
he drew me in among the hidden things.

Here sighs and lamentations and loud cries
were echoing across the starless air,
so that, as soon as I set out, I wept.

Strange utterances, horrible pronouncements,
accents of anger, words of suffering,
and voices shrill and faint, and beating hands

all went to make a tumult that will whirl
forever through that turbid, timeless air,
like sand that eddies when a whirlwind swirls.

*there it stops because there his memory stops and then he shuts the window...for it's time to leave*