"Every time a door opens to get me where I care to be, I fling myself at it," you explain. "Having come this far, I'm not inclined to take any further half-measures."
"May your grand designs come true, then," they say with a sidelong look at you. It's hard to discern what they make of your passionate, ambitious reply. [+Bile]
A pair of nightingales serenade each other atop a sycamore as you walk past. You catch a glimpse over the low wall and realize the town cemetery is just on the other side. Simple marble stones and the occasional mausoleum punctuate the darkened hillside.
You nearly twist your ankle on a rock as you look, but do your best to conceal the stumble from your companion. Given how topsy-turvy you feel after your drinks, you're astonished that the hunter isn't flat on their face.
"On airy nights as this, with open skies," they say quietly, not looking at you, "I dream myself into a zephyr's shape…."
Silence hangs. "Oh?" you prompt, uncertain.
"I lift up from the earth's damp weight, and whisk where'er my blustering fancies might suggest." Their eyes are closed, their hands outstretched as if alight. "More free than any nightingale; less bound than moonbeams shining through a cloudless eve; I do not think, or toil, or dedicate myself to any cause besides the love of movement…joyous speed…delicious flight."
Your brow wrinkles with concern. They're speaking in verse…how many drinks did go down that throat?