He steps between words with no fear, aware that his tongue could mispronounce anything at any moment. The pause between ‘Meiner’ and ‘Brust’ last five seconds and several lifetimes, and his voice gets weaker on every word, flickering.
“Ich bin der Geist, der st-stets verneint,” he reads. I am the spirit that always denies.
Even in his nervousness he feels a strange connection with the words, as though they don’t belong to Johann Wolfgang but to Rowan Radley.
I am the itch that is never scratched. I am the thirst that is never quenched. I am the boy who never gets.
Why is he like this? What is he denying? What would make him strong enough to have confidence in his own voice?
Sist sett
