to one who will not listen
Muraki's laughter cracked like splintering ice. He pressed his hands against the cold glass of the cylinder until his bones were visible through his skin. "Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft," he whispered. "Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Not one now, to mock your own grinning . . ."
His voice trailed away, and he leaned in closer until his breath spread pale swarming clouds upon the glass. "And now how abhorred in my imagination it is, this hanging piece of flesh which is not you . . ."
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