feels like snow in September

It is very chilly today; I slept and rose to the sound of steady rain, which is very good, I guess.
I think I am still gushing over the writing style of ocean sequence.
God, it's good.
It is like looking through a scrapbook, with the scattered quotes, timelines, short excerpts of Cummings and T. S. Eliot.
It is like flipping through a book or a diary of some sort, filled with pages of cut-out news articles and brochures, and music recommendations.
On this page here, this is when the infidelity is brought up.
Listen to chopin’s nocturne opus 9 no. 2 as you walk yourself down these paragraphs.
On the next, it is the Butterfly Dream, and emotions are colours.
It is a dreamer's dream.

Quirky, that's what it is.
Quirky and haunting.
(As haunting as sweet turning sour, which I can very much appreciate.)
It is an uncut diamond - it's hard to find fics like this one nowadays.
It is like wandering through a flea market and finding it tucked away at a corner stall.

It's good, God, it really is.
Infidelity, really.
I've never been one for angst, but this is good angst.

I just want to cradle the whole virtual work against my chest and have it never end or the reading of it finished.

This is how ocean sequence: it's bad religion, to be in love with someone ends:

now let’s go back to the beginning.

suppose that people live forever.

the population of the world splits into two, interestingly: the laters and the nows.

the nows and laters have one thing in common. with infinite life come an infinite list of relatives. generations never die, all alive and offering advice. sons never escape from the shadows of their father. no one ever comes into his own.

when a man makes a decision, he feels compelled to talk it over with his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, ad infinitum, to learn from their errors.

where every action must be verified a million times, life is tentative.

bridges thrust halfway over bodies of water and then abruptly stop. buildings rise nine stories high but have no roofs. the grocer’s inventory of crisps, salt, cod, and beef change with every change of mind, every consultation.

sentences go unfinis –

engagements end just days before weddings. and on the boulevards, people turn their heads and peer behind their backs to see who might be watching.

such is the cost of immortality. no person is whole. no person is free. neither a later or a now.

over time, some have determined that the only way to live is to die. in death, a man is free of the weight of the past. these few souls dive into lake constance or hurl themselves from monte lema, ending their infinite lives.

in this way, the finite has conquered the infinite, millions of autumns have yielded to no autumns, millions of snowfalls have yielded to no snowfalls, millions of lovers have yielded to none.

lovers make history: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.

There is a lot of reference to Einstein's Dreams of course, but it is very clever still.
(No, I have not read Einstein's Dreams; yes, I will soon.)