rate it - prose rating general

>>8304643
Write in past tense.

Call me Cis Male. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no privilege left in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on campus, I thought I would sail about a little and see the oppressed part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing patriarchal about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before KKK rallies, and bringing up the rear of every lynch mob I meet; and especially whenever my advantages get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong coloured woman to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking minorities' hats off- then, I account it high time to get on a plane as soon as I can. This is my substitute for PS4 and football. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the whip. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards their race with me.

>>8304666
is this pasta? if not, then it's legit. melville would be proud.

>>8304699
not a pasta

Nought much else than a few chambers and a few stone walls, and a proliferation of unmarked cairns in the grass and dirt, only some still mostly upright or whole, beyond the fallen walls beyond the walls, was left anymore to mark where the grand estate of the nearly ancient budding and acclaimed artithmetician- a young man back then (there was no one left on Trachila who would even consider caring how many centuries ago then had been), full of raw (and sexual, among other) energy that was more becoming of a poet or philosophe than a mathematician who, admittedly, dabbled in theory beyond his discipline, and that emanated from his darkish skin, lighter the longer he spent his life out on Trachila, even back then before the blackstorms first descended or the first grey cairns had been assembled, erected, and his joyful tongues brought with him to Trachila from the academic institutions and later legislative houses that dotted the half of a dozen or so ancien worlds that had made up his youth, more than a few of which he remembered, boyishly, fondly and well- who died either there, here in the estate, or in the mountains longer ago than could feasibly leave any of his own yellowed notes for Eighteen to cull through or mildewed texts in whole to add to her collection- since the second planoforming at least, Eighteen had learned, in part from the fragmented stories of Chichi; and in other part from the- admittedly sad- library in the more central Majula proper, where her and Paul had visited on a daytrip before their self-imposed exile- although there were eroded charts of three moons’ cycles, carved by hand; that is to say most likely by a hand wielding a primitive hand laser or even an atomknife; which sat like yawning, empty eyes in the stone wall of the courtyard, deep within what remained of the complex, where most of the rooms were still, at least, mostly intact.