You know, there's something to be said for company that doesn't make much sound outside of laughing or snorting. Rather his ideal company, even if he's not so big a fan of reading as much as he has to when talking to the fucker.
The question seems to touch on something — not strike a nerve exactly, but something adjacent to the concept. He turns to face Wrench, leveling him with steady, unfliching eye contact.
AYE, I LIKE TO WATCH THE LIGHT LEAVE A MAN'S EYES, THEM KNOWING I'M THE ONE THAT DID IT. BUT THERE'S NOTHING FUCKING POETIC ABOUT IT.
Poetry, as far as he's concerned, is about flowers and love and metaphors and all that other horse shit. Poetry's meant to be beautiful, or sad. What Sandor feels instead is a grim, painful sort of satisfaction. It feels like catharsis, like an outlet for his anger, and simultaneously a vessel to remind himself that he's nothing but a fucking killer at the end of the day. A dog, that's only good for one thing.
But he won't be saying a bloody word of any of that.
no subject
The question seems to touch on something — not strike a nerve exactly, but something adjacent to the concept. He turns to face Wrench, leveling him with steady, unfliching eye contact.
Poetry, as far as he's concerned, is about flowers and love and metaphors and all that other horse shit. Poetry's meant to be beautiful, or sad. What Sandor feels instead is a grim, painful sort of satisfaction. It feels like catharsis, like an outlet for his anger, and simultaneously a vessel to remind himself that he's nothing but a fucking killer at the end of the day. A dog, that's only good for one thing.
But he won't be saying a bloody word of any of that.