Matchmaking

Renly returned to the bar, and Neil, having noticed the minor commotion just now, inquired with concern, "Is everything okay?"

"It's the quirks of artists," Renly waved his hand dismissively, unaffected.

Neil chuckled softly at this response, teasing, "So, you're in the same league as them."

Renly gazed at Neil with composure, with no intention of denying it. Neil could only chuckle in resignation.

Being one of the favorite gathering spots for artists on the East Coast, and even throughout North America, New York, especially the Lower East Side, attracted a plethora of eccentric artists. Almost every artist had their own peculiarities, which set them apart from mainstream society. Village Vanguard was one of their beloved places, where they encountered all sorts of odd situations almost every day. Renly and Neil were no strangers to this.

"Where's George?" Renly turned to look around and realized that George was no longer there.

"Stanley came over." Neil gestured towards another part of the bar. Renly followed his gaze and saw Stanley and George sitting in a booth. George was speaking loudly, while Stanley's expression grew progressively brighter, exuding joy and contentment.

Turning back, Renly noticed the wide grin on Neil's face, his raised eyebrow indicating that he was in on the news from George as well.

Renly's smile faded, replaced by a cold and distant expression. Neil's eyebrows knitted together in frustration, as he drummed his fingers on the table in protest.

However, it was clear that this tactic wasn't working on Renly. Gazing at his indifferent and serene demeanor, Neil felt a twinge of sadness. Yet, he knew Renly was a man of his word. Once he made a promise, he would keep it. With this thought, Neil's mood lifted again.

In his peripheral vision, Neil caught sight of something in the left foreground. He leaned slightly closer to Renly, lowering his voice, "They're coming over again."

Renly turned his head and saw the old vagabond approaching, carrying his own beer. The other two were still seated in the booth.

The old vagabond took a seat beside Renly, leaving an empty space between them. He sat down and gestured to Neil with his beer bottle, "Give the young lad a bottle."

Neil looked at Renly and then proceeded to open a bottle of beer, placing it in front of Renly.

"Our two old friends were a bit rude earlier. Sorry about that," the old vagabond aimed his beer bottle at Renly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. No lengthy explanations, no cunning justifications. His candid and upfront demeanor conveyed sincerity, and most importantly, his eyes remained earnest and focused on Renly.

Renly picked up the beer in front of him, gave a slight nod, and took a sip. It was his way of accepting the apology. However, he didn't say much either. His cool and detached demeanor caused the air, which hadn't yet warmed up, to chill once more.

But the old vagabond didn't mind. He continued, "This is a really nice place. Even in New York, bars like this are becoming scarce. I used to adore these unique little bars when I was in London. An occasional drink, chatting with familiar or unfamiliar faces, properly squandering time."

"The United States is a country with a fast-paced lifestyle," Renly shrugged with a light laugh in response.

The old vagabond nodded with utmost seriousness, "But sometimes, we need to slow down." After uttering this sentence, he paused momentarily, as if savoring something, then took a sip of beer, "I heard there's a performance here tonight?"

"Yes," Renly speculated that the old vagabond and the old artist were friends of Woody's. Woody must have brought them here to enjoy a different kind of evening, "Even those who aren't fond of live performances would appreciate the atmosphere here. London can't compare."

"Oh, my anticipation just shot up again," the old vagabond's voice was deep and hoarse. His humor, like a bass drum, seemed offbeat, "I heard you occasionally perform here too?"

"Occasionally," Renly nodded, admitting it openly, and then emphasized, "Just occasionally."

The corner of the old vagabond's mouth curved slightly upwards. It was evident that Renly's underlying meaning was clear. Tonight, Renly had no intention of performing, "Is the feeling different when you're on stage? I mean, the stage here. What kind of feeling is that?"

Renly turned his head, following the old vagabond's gaze to the stage.

Village Vanguard's stage wasn't large. Strictly speaking, it was a small platform, just one step above the level of the customers. It didn't cover a large area. If a drum kit was set up on it, it would almost take up half the space.

"A feeling of isolating oneself from the world?" Renly half-jokingly quipped, "But simultaneously connecting oneself to a different world."

Currently, the stage remained unlit, immersed in darkness. However, in this dimness, thoughts began to spread. Renly withdrew his gaze, took another sip of beer, and felt the icy liquid slide down his throat. Occasionally, to regain composure, one needed certain things to detach themselves from the complexities of reality, giving them time to be alone with themselves. Some chose alcohol, others chose substances."

"You chose music," the old vagabond also averted his gaze and turned to Renly.

"You could say that." Renly nodded in affirmation, "When I need to contemplate, I choose music; when I don't need to think, I go surfing or rock climbing." Then he shrugged, "Or who knows? Alcohol seems like a decent option as well."

This subtle banter caused the old vagabond to chuckle softly, but after the laughter subsided, he fixed his gaze on Renly, "What are you thinking about?"

"Ha." Renly chuckled lightly, "Anything you want to think about. Even things that, if spoken aloud, would get you arrested or even imprisoned." The mocking words didn't come off as offensive but rather held a hint of dark humor.

The old vagabond nodded in agreement, thoughtfully savoring Renly's earlier words.

At first glance, Renly appeared to be a dashing gentleman—elegant, reserved, composed, wise. The occasional gleam of his edge remained hidden, like a concealed weapon. Yet, in moments of banter, his loneliness and solitude seeped through like tranquil moonlight—chilly, steadfast, crystalline, and desolate, entwining within the lines.

"Or perhaps, contemplating the origins of those questions in life, pondering..." The old vagabond's voice gradually lowered, sinking so deep that it seemed on the verge of vanishing. His trailing tone carried a subtle undertone of unnoticed pain, causing Renly to turn his head, somewhat surprised. "Contemplating whether there might be a way to solve this issue, then... to free us from the boundless sea of suffering among all living beings."

The old vagabond's words held a profound weight, yet the emotions concealed within were fragile, as if a gentle touch could shatter them. Even the atmosphere grew heavy.

"What have you chosen?" Renly's abrupt question broke the silence. He didn't know what the old vagabond had experienced, as everyone had their own story. However, he understood that some wounds were beyond healing.

The old vagabond understood immediately, "Writing. I chose writing. Although I'm a terribly poor writer, words hold a peculiar power for me."

Renly nodded in agreement.

He loved words, even though they weren't his strongest suit. During his previous life in college, he studied journalism, excelling in working with words. Yet, his strength lay in reporting objective facts, conducting interviews, and engaging in debate. Music creation was an entirely different matter.

But as the old vagabond had mentioned, words were wondrous. They were merely simple arrangements of vocabulary, yet they could construct vast and magnificent worlds within the mind. The most fascinating aspect was that the same words, when read by different people, at different life stages, or in different social contexts, evoked different feelings.

"Just like Edgar Allan Poe," the old vagabond lightly tugged at the corner of his mouth, attempting to form a smile but failing, letting it droop, "His words possess a mysterious enchantment. The gothic worlds built by metaphors, symbols, and imagery—dark and romantic—aren't mere words."

Renly's fingers gently traced the beer bottle in his palm, his thoughts following the old vagabond's words, sinking into contemplation.

"During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher."

This was the opening of Edgar Allan Poe's classic gothic novel "The Fall of the House of Usher", an ink-stained stroke in literary history, deeply influencing countless subsequent authors, including China's Lin Yutang, Lu Xun, and more.

Edgar's diction and artistic imagery reached the pinnacle in this work, even finding a place in European literary studies where many regarded it as literature on par with Shakespeare.

Just like the ancient poem, "Upon the scene before me — upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain — upon the bleak walls — upon the vacant eye-like windows — upon a few rank sedges — and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees — with an utter depression of soul..." In Edgar's story, a few strokes depicted a scene veiled in darkness, soaked in blood, and tinged with helplessness. This opening depicted an abandoned castle, the House of Usher, but in the eyes of the world, it depicted the desolate, tragic, and forlorn landscape of early 19th-century society.

"I know not how it was — but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible."

Renly recited softly. This was why he loved words. Just like music, they could reflect the temperature of the soul—genuine, exquisite.