The Sentinels after delacroix

All thoughts of food were forgotten, for his mind was flooded with her. Images from when he was a child, idyllic rememberings of Monet as she frolicked through the fields or tended to the flowers; she had her face, she had Deirdre's, it did not matter - they were the same, and he loved them the same. Her voice only added to this love of his. The more she spoke the more charmed he felt, and he laughed again, enthralled by her and enamored. Wi, 'ou! Wi,

He staggered but fell in to step beside her, forgetting temporarily all about the hunt and the flood of the sea, and even the half-digested fish that the creature had expounded upon the sand; the smell should have alerted him, but with his proximity to her, Renoir was aflush with her sweet perfume, and his addled mind was in such a state of pleasure that he cared little for food.

Mwen pral renmen ou pou tout tan, dous mwen, flè m'yo, zanj mwen. Yes, he was wounded. There was a small crack in his mind and a bruise upon his head that his plush fur would cover, nothing overt and nothing she could remedy; he was likely concussed but was too enthusiastic in his ramblings to bother listening to her as she tried to tend to him.

Yon jou papa pral eseye pran ou nan men'm, men mwen pa pral kite l'non! Pa tan sa'a, pa nenpòt ki lè - Ah, but he was making no sense at all now. Seeing her, knowing it was her - but thinking of his sister still. A sorrowful note entered his voice then, and gradually his rambling petered out to a dulled groan caused by the distance he felt between himself and his true desire.