pleased as fuck to have been able to make a (semi-ironic, i’m not yet sure) reference to sudovian— possibly old prussian— (one of my two favorite fragments— “Ocho Moy myle schwante Panike,” or “oh my dear (but I always mistranslate it as ‘sweet’ because of false cognates) holy fire!”) in some writing last night:
“That being said, if he expresses any bewilderment over having been called an arrogant, most certainly damned woodland wizard who believes diving into rivers and leaping barefoot over fires is all it takes to get him laid…
“He is lying. He knows precisely what I meant, and I am certain of it. And if he says I said anything like “Go ahead, then, build your sweet holy fires!” or suggested he not even bother using our wood supply for fuel when we have a vast library I knew he was just dying to set ablaze so he can get his dick sucked and return to whatever primitive, pre-literate mystical oral tradition in that slithering tongue his soul secretly yearns for…
“I did. And I am not sorry.”
