swadeys: LATER, ACHILLES SLEEPS next to me. Odysseus’ storm has come, and the coarse fabric of the

swadeys: LATER, ACHILLES SLEEPS next to me. Odysseus’ storm has come, and the coarse fabric of the tent wall trembles with its force. I hear the stinging slap, over and over, of waves reproaching the shore. He stirs and the air stirs with him, bearing the musk-sweet smell of his body.  I think: This is what I will miss. I think: I will kill myself rather than miss it.  I think: How long do we have?   -- source link

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