'Mirny!' the other man shouts again, likely assuming he's being intentionally ignored. It's not a bad assumption, really - he certainly
has been guilty of doing exactly that in the past - but it's incorrect, now. He's just trying to soak up a little more time in the sun before he has to deal with
this.
Nothing can be put off forever, though. With a loud, somewhat exaggerated sigh, he pushes the jacket off his face, pushes his mussed hair back, and sits up. It takes a few moments for the world to come into focus, but he quickly locates the source of the interruption, just as expected.
'I always tell you to call me Ian,' he grumbles.
and if you ask how i regret that parting:
it is like the flowers falling at spring's end
confused, whirled in a tangle.
what is the use of talking, and there is no end of talking,
there is no end of things in the heart.
ezra pound,
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