Eases his aching buttocks on the bench, selects from the proffered annotated ivoryellowed mushroomed eyeballs


Krummhorn, Rohrflote,
Terz und Quint,
Mixtur, Rauschpfeife:
Fertig? Stimmt!

gothscripted invitations to timbral titillation as Leighton stretches out an arm to either side, hands spread, then bends the elbows until he can shove the fifth fingers into his earholes. A good vigorous wiggle, a plopping withdrawal, a fastidious inspection of the tips. Wipe on chords, cords. He pulls from a jacket pocket a noisome length of College bogpaper. An exhaustive blowing of the nose. Consider result: not green. And wipes his streaming eyes, before balling tightly the sodden tissue and hurling it into the dark deserted nave below. Hands on bench. Lift left lobe. A smeller. Rearrange penis, which, partially erected by who knows what unconscious fantasy has become uncomfortably entangled in his pants, taking longer than strictly necessary over this operation, heh, well... and then, that none of his nine openings should be neglected, a copious, gobscouring spit into the pedalboard. Leighton reaches once morefor the keys, and Contrapunctus VIII of the Art of Fugue begins its cathartic dance for him.

In a nearby room, Henry the hardworking poet and novice novelist buries his face in his hands as his concentration collapses. He has suffered seven contrapuncti so far this evening, and he knows enough about Bach's music and Leighton's mind to resign himself to the fact that there are ten more to come.

Henry: Fuck!

The Rev. Tobias Alexander (Sandy) Goodbody: Fucksuch language O this wicket whorl. Whoosat shouting? Henry's room. Nottaman I see in chapel, no. And the pretty music charms me art out. The great Sebastian, harrowing piercing sweetit rings, ringsall around the darkling quad and is that rain misting in the lamplight, oh it falls on the just and the un. here am I, halfgone; woodyer believe it? Lodger worldis fullerlarvley music and bloodid cursors too.