Odd day today. Two and a half hours of effort, netting about 400 new words on the manuscript. I've been going though Jeff's hand-written material in detail, first all the looseleaf sheets and now the small spiral bound notebook. Most of that is stuff I've transcribed as notes into a scratch file, partly to internalize it through retyping, and partly to capture some specific prose elements. Another day like this tomorrow, and maybe Saturday depending on how long the notebook takes me. Then I think I'll be completely done except for new compostion.
Even in this,
The lost-soul wailing rebecs echoing across the crumbing roofs of the western quarters, the lone and mournful note of a desert pipe played by some goatherd down from the hills, the gentle patter of a xylophone being pressed into music by some early-rising drover waiting to greet the first bright sliver of sun.
Benjobi woke from a dream of a desert of skulls; he woke with the taste of blood in his mouth; he woke to the unfamiliar knowledge of snow, a tactile understanding borne in the cold tips of his fingers, in the unfamiliar chill across his body