The Glaistig attached to this house on Loch Faschan-side in Lornwas known as Nic-ille-mhicheil163 (i.e. a woman of the surname ofCarmichael), and was said to have been a former mistress of the house.She lived in a ravine, called Eas-ronaich, near the mansion, and whenany misfortune was about to befall the family set up a loud wailing. Onsunny days she was to be seen basking on the top of Creag Ghrianach(the Sunny Rock), also in the neighbourhood. Before the old house waslevelled, and the present mansion was built, she set up an unusuallyloud wailing, and then left. Fully a year before the event, she seemedgreatly disturbed; her step up and down stairs, and the noise of chairsand tables being moved about was frequently heard after people hadgone to bed. At Glen-Iuchair, a man, who was in the evening convoyedacross the glen by a grey sheep, was firmly of opinion his strangeconvoy could have been no other than Nic-ille-mhìcheil. No real sheepcould have been so attentive to him. This attachment to particularindividuals was also shown in the case of a poor old woman, named Mòr(i.e. Sarah), resident on the farm. When Mor fell sick, the Glaistigused to come to the window and wail loudly.
"Haste" opens the B-side in a minimal torrent of industrial static and meditative, metallic dust, perfectly setting the scene for the melancholic modality of "Stint," which traipses through air with the muted beauty befit for Wolfgang Voigt's Gas project or the similarly minded minimalists of Mille Plateaux. The bucolic bleakness eventually dissolves into the heightened obsession and sardonic seduction of "Allotment," exploiting micro-house's sublime ambivalence to ante up the genre's heady hedonism into more abstracted terms. "Juncture" closes out Timeline in a subdued fit of glitched beauty, fixating on a series of micro-tonal epiphanies and refined resonant frequencies.
A Sunny Day In Glasgow Torrent
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That was his undoing. He got in the way of the second wave and was swallowed up like a leaf in a torrent. For a moment I saw a red face and a loud-checked suit, and the rest was silence. He was carried on over the hill, or rolled into an enemy trench, but anyhow he was lost to my ken.
The train was abominably late. It was due at eight-twenty-seven, but it was nearly ten when we reached St. Pancras. I had resolved to go straight to my rooms in Westminster, buying on the way a cap and waterproof to conceal my uniform should anyone be near my door on my arrival. Then I would ring up Blenkiron and tell him all my adventures. I breakfasted at a coffee-stall, left my pack and rifle in the cloakroom, and walked out into the clear sunny morning. 2ff7e9595c
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