Huginn: I spoke to Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead. He was changed somehow, by the ebb and flow of the tides. He had lost his gravity, and yet he grieved for his handsome youthfulness. Death by water was always the most melancholic of endings.

Muninn: The water and the wasteland are not the same; yet Death cannot be proud in either. The one ignores Death because water changes all things; the other ignores Death because emptiness is more terrible.

H: Phlebas lets the waters pour through him. There is music still alive in his dead mouth.

M: April has always been the cruellest month. December is merely the beginning.

H: The sailors sing his song. They make it drunk and jolly and rowdy and in doing so, remember Phlebas who was once handsome and as tall as they.

M: And thus do sailor songs and the peace of the ineffable become one.

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