/fdata%2F0606912%2Favatar.png){kind=avatar}
Notes Spinned Off of a Fragment on Memory from the Adventure Series: Another Cut-up Clipping
… the place told of nothing but dead bastion …
… mariners and sea disaster came down upon the sand-hills shores …
… a ship, a huge northernmost low sky & gray sea,
bare, wind-ragged, white links, huddled hedge of elders, sea-birds screamed, the sand beating to perennial arctic ice-fields & there, strikingly, a land windward on the horizon, & town in front, ill-omened strait of whistling whirlpools, roared a distance far beyond the two shallow bays, some defaulting banker islands, the great deep, & wind always whistled …
… half-buried wreck gleaming among the darker weed, & the sand-hill again cropped out beyond the grim grey sea outlandish voices haunted by sea-birds along the coast-line between the islets just beyond the tides …
… foreign speech together by the wind made a continual piping at sundown in moorish mist & roared in the weeds on the cliffs of mariners …
… september cliffs with a high wind heavy running seaward, & little links, foam, spray, & great, grey waves, & the blood-and-thunder tale forming a surf rolling in close along the passed on voices died in that country very northern to behold
—the sands, a promontory in northern wind
—a coach rolling over a roaring grave in streets full of blowing sand
—nothing hard upon the shore …
… mariners and sea disaster came down upon the sand-hills shores …
… a ship, a huge northernmost low sky & gray sea,
bare, wind-ragged, white links, huddled hedge of elders, sea-birds screamed, the sand beating to perennial arctic ice-fields & there, strikingly, a land windward on the horizon, & town in front, ill-omened strait of whistling whirlpools, roared a distance far beyond the two shallow bays, some defaulting banker islands, the great deep, & wind always whistled …
… half-buried wreck gleaming among the darker weed, & the sand-hill again cropped out beyond the grim grey sea outlandish voices haunted by sea-birds along the coast-line between the islets just beyond the tides …
… foreign speech together by the wind made a continual piping at sundown in moorish mist & roared in the weeds on the cliffs of mariners …
… september cliffs with a high wind heavy running seaward, & little links, foam, spray, & great, grey waves, & the blood-and-thunder tale forming a surf rolling in close along the passed on voices died in that country very northern to behold
—the sands, a promontory in northern wind
—a coach rolling over a roaring grave in streets full of blowing sand
—nothing hard upon the shore …