The night was eerie and darkened by a starless sky.
The trees, that decorated the threatening landscape, striked any observing eye,
as if they were never kissed by a morning Spring, lacking of leaves, haunted by
an aurea of long forgotten, immemorial times. Noises - whose endeavour to
comprehend was fruitless - of an eerie kind, impresions, in the deep shadow of
the forest, of slythering wraiths, which were frosting to the merrow the Walker
in this dark scene, sounded as if they were ghosts of fallen souls, of a
fiendish battle. Another sound was running through the windless air. The Walker
found its source unknown, despite having the awful feeling it was blood
travelling through veins and arteries. If, nearby, there were any animals,
creatures, a mammal beast or reptile dragon of any sort, it did not seem
likely, for the only noises heard were the above described (effortlessly so,
for this realm was so mystical and obscure that mere phrases written aren't
sufficient to draw a truthful picture), with exception for the steps of the
walker's feet, echoing through the deathly space. The soil was rock and unruly
dirt, sadly flowered by sporadic appearences of some grey grass. The sky did
not look like sky, at all, for the clouded atmosphere could only signify that
the sky itself had been split open by the deities who rule over the Universe.
Fearful night reigned over this forsaken site.
The Walker journeyed deep into the forest, with his handsome features being turned to specter like ones, reflected by the icy and blackening mist, which grew thicker and thicker, hidding the surroundings from the Walker's scared blue eyes. He did not understand why he kept on walking forward, expecting to discover any hidden secret that could lie at the end of that directionless road. His breath expelled vapor, his skin trembled, his eyes moved side to side in its sockets, at warning to any ghastly encounter, that would surface amidst the overwhelming fog of icy hydrogen. The Walker looked up, searching for a star, a moon, a sign which would confirm that he was not yet taken to an unworldly place. He wished a hundred depressions, to being environed in such location, and by a condition, a will, he could not explain, his curiosity still drove his body on. The Walker could not say if he was a herd, insisting on advancing to the edge of the cliff, or a soul depressed, insisting to adventure on the limits of sanity. He tried to smell the air, the leaves, the mist, but all he felt, or sensed, was cold alienation from himself. He tried to hear more than eerie vibrations, but all he recieved was deafening silence. He then tasted the very matter his lips and tongue could blow or lick, desperate for something warm or familiar, but only absence he did kiss.
Only the trees knew for how long he wandered, walking a line he could not see. And then came to his sight a vision, which undoubtly was real: the source of the blood running sound - a river. A calm and motioning river like any other, cutting the road on which he had been wandering. The Walker stopped walking when he approached the margin of that river, observed and felt with all his being the waterly peace, contemplating on diving and letting himself be taken by that endless motion of life. However, before any resolve, in an instant, the mist softned, and, to his surprise, the walker saw a line of flame moving in the river. He quickly understood that the light was not in the river, and was, instead, a reflection of sky, above, which was now clean and cloudless. He beheld that track of light, travelling fiercely through the sky, illuminating the atmosphere. Then, another phenomenon, high in the sky, summoned his attention, for a big and shinning Moon was also visible near the horizon. The Walker moved to a better spot, leaning to a black trunk of a nearby tree, contemplating the wonder of light, forgetting, momentarily, the fireball that was moving, but the moments of peace were soon to be curbed.
All of a sudden, the fireball drew a arc in the sky and struck the Moon, incinerating it with violent fire. A beacon of destruction and chaos was lit in the peaceful darkness of the firmament, and despite the singular spectacle, for which the Walker had a front row sit, he felt terror, and all he wished was that all was just a dream... or a nightmare. A ferocious windstorm followed, as if the Cosmos had begun to spin at absurd velocity, and electric lights flashed in the sky - some were crimson red, others blindingly white. Even the river ceased its stoic cycle, tormenting its margin and the trees in proximity. The Walker decided to walk or stay still no more - it was time to run. He ran on the same straight line, amongst the now unstable trees, which had taken him to the site near the river. He reached the outer rim of the forest, moving against the very absurdity that could only characterize that hellish location. He stopped and gazed into the horizon, and what he saw frizzed his brain with fear and burned his eyes with hellfire: the moon, which, at that state, resembled the Sun, was engulfed in flame, and from it, comets were raining down, far on the edges of the planet. Armageddon was making its journey into the Earth.
Then, another phenomenon called for the Walker's attention. A beacon of solace, shinning on golden, materialized in the middle of the ground. The Walker ignored what it meant or how it came to be, all he hoped was that it signified shelter and salvation from the calamity which was devastating the land. He rushed into the golden light, and while approaching it, he beheld a ark of gargantuan dimensions, made of pure gold, enclosed, toppled by two birds, next to one another, united by an open wing of each. Inscriptions of an unknown kind decorated the ark, and snakes, fashioning their devilish teeth, were present in the basis of the ark. The Walker, throwing all caution to the wind, proceeded to climb the very ark, desperate for protection, but no avail came from it. He was now standing on the ark's cover, all in plain gold, his eyes gazing at the astronomical spectacle, and all his hope had parted his mind. By now the only thing left was to wait. However, an undefining voice was heard, echoing through the chaos - a surprise how such voice could be heard amidst desolation of that kind -, summoning the Walker's attention, who was still standing over the ark, and he glanced, instead, at the very cover in which he stood still. The whispers - the voice - were, indeed, being brought by the ark, and words materialized at the Walker's feet: "Death is only the beginning". At that moments notice of such eerie phrase, a otherworldly explosion, an uproar of galactic proportions, filled the environment, just after the very Moon started crumbling down, in rivers of lava, falling on the very horizon, like a curtain call at a theater. The Walker closed his eyes, embracing himself. Armageddon had arrived.
He screamed, filling the moist of hot weather all over his body. He dared oppening his eyes. All was just a dream... or a nightmare, he did think. He looked around, in panic, and realised he was, still, in the same place where he had fallen asleep. His panic and desperation flew from his mind, rapidly, as if those were sentiments of another mind and another life.
An environment of obscurity covered his sight, once again, but a warm and familiar one. Terror had met its end. The room had regular dimensions. The wall was populated by a few paintings - some were surrealist replicas (such as Dali's Persistance of Memory), others contained political figures such as Marx, Nietzsche, Rousseau or Bertrand Russell, others were of rock paintings and musicians (Pink Floyd, Jim Morrison, Leonard Cohen, Beethoven, Holst) -, and a bookcase - full of Philosophy, Cosmology, History and Literature - was leaned imponently against it. The door to the corridor was closed, and the glass door to the balcony was partially open, permiting the soft breeze of a late night californian Summer to touch and float through the room. He rose his torso and set on a king-sized bed, watching the waving curtain, animated by the wind, entering through the balcony door, and then looked to his left, contemplating a book closed at his bedside table - Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, by Lord Byron. He reached out with his arm, not to grab the book - which would require him to turn on the light, and such would awake Michael, laid at his right -, but to grab a cigarette and light it on. Never did he do such thing - smoking at the middle of the sleep - but his nerves remained uneasy.
"Sunshine." Michael had awaken. "What are you doing?"
"What does it seem." He responded. "I'm just smoking a cigarette. Do you want me to turn it off?" He asked softly.
"Why would you? It's already lit. The matter is that you never smoke at the middle of the night." Michael said, with an inquiring face, looking at his lover's aspect.
"Everything's fine, Michael." He said, unconvincingly. "I was just thinking..."
"You're clearly troubled by something, Dennis." Michael approached himself to Dennis' side. "Are you telling me, or am I allowed to sleep?"
"Nobody's impinding you." Dennis replied, and, looking at Michael's piercing gaze, added in low tone. "I had a most eerie nightmare you wouldn't believe."
"You had a nightmare..." Michael smiled, faintly.
"Laugh all you want." Dennis spoke louder. "But it was really dreadful. There was a black forest, then there was a river, and then an enormous explosion which melted down the Moon."
"Sunshine, your dreams are more thrilling than some of my working days." Michael jested.
"I can only imagine." Muttured Dennis, extinguishing the cigarette. Michael laid his head against the pillow, readying his eyes to fall in his unperturbed sleep once more.
"I believe I saw the Ark of the Covenant." Dennis threw this information, expecting a dramatic effect from it. "And words appeared in there."
"Were those the directions for the Holy Grail's resting place?" Michael sarcastically spoke, with eyes shut still. Before Dennis could utter an answer of protest, in a mellow low toning voice, Michael added. "Look, sugar, I think you're troubling your mind with that damn book you're reading on. It might be too sickening for sweet blue eyes to look at." Michael said in a condescending way.
In a stage theater like manner, Dennis grabbed Byron's Pilgrimage. "Byron?" He waved the book. "What's wrong with romanticism?"
"It's not the Pilgrimage, thick head." Michael hit his own forehead with his palm. "Whatever Denny, I have to sleep. The city of San Francisco waits me tomorrow."
"Right, there shall be millions of fairies in attendance." Michael ignored Dennis' caustic irony, raised to kiss him goodnight, and laid back, pretending to be asleep again.
Dennis had one remaining troublesome thought, hoovering over his mind, concerning the ultimate chaos which he witnessed in his nightmare. He got out of bed, dressed only in his boxers, with the moonlight hitting his lean and ballet dancer like anatomy. He stared at the balcony, outside, well knowing that Michael was observing him.
"Do you think Mei and Saji are doing well?" Dennis' question had a shadow of concern, which himself could not explain.
"Doing just fine, those two. Gazing, over the edge, in the westernmost part of the Old Continent."
Dennis heard his lovers remark, as if they issued the most fundamental logic and common sense. He slightly opened the balcony door, feeling the soft wind of Summer, observing the nearby palmtrees, outside in the street. He glanced at a closed book, marked in the middle, with contempt. Dennis wondered if it was really worth the endeavour, to continue to read it - words which were left by a specter of obscurantism -, Dennis thought. Product of the twisted mind of Julius Evola.
Dennis rather decided to observe, instead, the horizon. The full Moon partially illuminated the nearby firmament, uncovering, in the dark of sky and stars, the small pieces of cloud, typical of the West Coast, that suspended in the air here and there. Was anything worse than sleeping, and not having domination over one's thoughts, in this he was thinking.
Almost in silent voice, he blew to the quiet and silent night, reanimating, in his head, the sight of a crumbling Moon and of a mystical ark, "Death is only the beggining..."
At that instant, a detonation of a flaming mushroom was about to craft a cancer on the very land, where the winds of Winter often blew, in the westernmost part of the New World.
Michael Maximiliano
The Walker journeyed deep into the forest, with his handsome features being turned to specter like ones, reflected by the icy and blackening mist, which grew thicker and thicker, hidding the surroundings from the Walker's scared blue eyes. He did not understand why he kept on walking forward, expecting to discover any hidden secret that could lie at the end of that directionless road. His breath expelled vapor, his skin trembled, his eyes moved side to side in its sockets, at warning to any ghastly encounter, that would surface amidst the overwhelming fog of icy hydrogen. The Walker looked up, searching for a star, a moon, a sign which would confirm that he was not yet taken to an unworldly place. He wished a hundred depressions, to being environed in such location, and by a condition, a will, he could not explain, his curiosity still drove his body on. The Walker could not say if he was a herd, insisting on advancing to the edge of the cliff, or a soul depressed, insisting to adventure on the limits of sanity. He tried to smell the air, the leaves, the mist, but all he felt, or sensed, was cold alienation from himself. He tried to hear more than eerie vibrations, but all he recieved was deafening silence. He then tasted the very matter his lips and tongue could blow or lick, desperate for something warm or familiar, but only absence he did kiss.
Only the trees knew for how long he wandered, walking a line he could not see. And then came to his sight a vision, which undoubtly was real: the source of the blood running sound - a river. A calm and motioning river like any other, cutting the road on which he had been wandering. The Walker stopped walking when he approached the margin of that river, observed and felt with all his being the waterly peace, contemplating on diving and letting himself be taken by that endless motion of life. However, before any resolve, in an instant, the mist softned, and, to his surprise, the walker saw a line of flame moving in the river. He quickly understood that the light was not in the river, and was, instead, a reflection of sky, above, which was now clean and cloudless. He beheld that track of light, travelling fiercely through the sky, illuminating the atmosphere. Then, another phenomenon, high in the sky, summoned his attention, for a big and shinning Moon was also visible near the horizon. The Walker moved to a better spot, leaning to a black trunk of a nearby tree, contemplating the wonder of light, forgetting, momentarily, the fireball that was moving, but the moments of peace were soon to be curbed.
All of a sudden, the fireball drew a arc in the sky and struck the Moon, incinerating it with violent fire. A beacon of destruction and chaos was lit in the peaceful darkness of the firmament, and despite the singular spectacle, for which the Walker had a front row sit, he felt terror, and all he wished was that all was just a dream... or a nightmare. A ferocious windstorm followed, as if the Cosmos had begun to spin at absurd velocity, and electric lights flashed in the sky - some were crimson red, others blindingly white. Even the river ceased its stoic cycle, tormenting its margin and the trees in proximity. The Walker decided to walk or stay still no more - it was time to run. He ran on the same straight line, amongst the now unstable trees, which had taken him to the site near the river. He reached the outer rim of the forest, moving against the very absurdity that could only characterize that hellish location. He stopped and gazed into the horizon, and what he saw frizzed his brain with fear and burned his eyes with hellfire: the moon, which, at that state, resembled the Sun, was engulfed in flame, and from it, comets were raining down, far on the edges of the planet. Armageddon was making its journey into the Earth.
Then, another phenomenon called for the Walker's attention. A beacon of solace, shinning on golden, materialized in the middle of the ground. The Walker ignored what it meant or how it came to be, all he hoped was that it signified shelter and salvation from the calamity which was devastating the land. He rushed into the golden light, and while approaching it, he beheld a ark of gargantuan dimensions, made of pure gold, enclosed, toppled by two birds, next to one another, united by an open wing of each. Inscriptions of an unknown kind decorated the ark, and snakes, fashioning their devilish teeth, were present in the basis of the ark. The Walker, throwing all caution to the wind, proceeded to climb the very ark, desperate for protection, but no avail came from it. He was now standing on the ark's cover, all in plain gold, his eyes gazing at the astronomical spectacle, and all his hope had parted his mind. By now the only thing left was to wait. However, an undefining voice was heard, echoing through the chaos - a surprise how such voice could be heard amidst desolation of that kind -, summoning the Walker's attention, who was still standing over the ark, and he glanced, instead, at the very cover in which he stood still. The whispers - the voice - were, indeed, being brought by the ark, and words materialized at the Walker's feet: "Death is only the beginning". At that moments notice of such eerie phrase, a otherworldly explosion, an uproar of galactic proportions, filled the environment, just after the very Moon started crumbling down, in rivers of lava, falling on the very horizon, like a curtain call at a theater. The Walker closed his eyes, embracing himself. Armageddon had arrived.
He screamed, filling the moist of hot weather all over his body. He dared oppening his eyes. All was just a dream... or a nightmare, he did think. He looked around, in panic, and realised he was, still, in the same place where he had fallen asleep. His panic and desperation flew from his mind, rapidly, as if those were sentiments of another mind and another life.
An environment of obscurity covered his sight, once again, but a warm and familiar one. Terror had met its end. The room had regular dimensions. The wall was populated by a few paintings - some were surrealist replicas (such as Dali's Persistance of Memory), others contained political figures such as Marx, Nietzsche, Rousseau or Bertrand Russell, others were of rock paintings and musicians (Pink Floyd, Jim Morrison, Leonard Cohen, Beethoven, Holst) -, and a bookcase - full of Philosophy, Cosmology, History and Literature - was leaned imponently against it. The door to the corridor was closed, and the glass door to the balcony was partially open, permiting the soft breeze of a late night californian Summer to touch and float through the room. He rose his torso and set on a king-sized bed, watching the waving curtain, animated by the wind, entering through the balcony door, and then looked to his left, contemplating a book closed at his bedside table - Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, by Lord Byron. He reached out with his arm, not to grab the book - which would require him to turn on the light, and such would awake Michael, laid at his right -, but to grab a cigarette and light it on. Never did he do such thing - smoking at the middle of the sleep - but his nerves remained uneasy.
"Sunshine." Michael had awaken. "What are you doing?"
"What does it seem." He responded. "I'm just smoking a cigarette. Do you want me to turn it off?" He asked softly.
"Why would you? It's already lit. The matter is that you never smoke at the middle of the night." Michael said, with an inquiring face, looking at his lover's aspect.
"Everything's fine, Michael." He said, unconvincingly. "I was just thinking..."
"You're clearly troubled by something, Dennis." Michael approached himself to Dennis' side. "Are you telling me, or am I allowed to sleep?"
"Nobody's impinding you." Dennis replied, and, looking at Michael's piercing gaze, added in low tone. "I had a most eerie nightmare you wouldn't believe."
"You had a nightmare..." Michael smiled, faintly.
"Laugh all you want." Dennis spoke louder. "But it was really dreadful. There was a black forest, then there was a river, and then an enormous explosion which melted down the Moon."
"Sunshine, your dreams are more thrilling than some of my working days." Michael jested.
"I can only imagine." Muttured Dennis, extinguishing the cigarette. Michael laid his head against the pillow, readying his eyes to fall in his unperturbed sleep once more.
"I believe I saw the Ark of the Covenant." Dennis threw this information, expecting a dramatic effect from it. "And words appeared in there."
"Were those the directions for the Holy Grail's resting place?" Michael sarcastically spoke, with eyes shut still. Before Dennis could utter an answer of protest, in a mellow low toning voice, Michael added. "Look, sugar, I think you're troubling your mind with that damn book you're reading on. It might be too sickening for sweet blue eyes to look at." Michael said in a condescending way.
In a stage theater like manner, Dennis grabbed Byron's Pilgrimage. "Byron?" He waved the book. "What's wrong with romanticism?"
"It's not the Pilgrimage, thick head." Michael hit his own forehead with his palm. "Whatever Denny, I have to sleep. The city of San Francisco waits me tomorrow."
"Right, there shall be millions of fairies in attendance." Michael ignored Dennis' caustic irony, raised to kiss him goodnight, and laid back, pretending to be asleep again.
Dennis had one remaining troublesome thought, hoovering over his mind, concerning the ultimate chaos which he witnessed in his nightmare. He got out of bed, dressed only in his boxers, with the moonlight hitting his lean and ballet dancer like anatomy. He stared at the balcony, outside, well knowing that Michael was observing him.
"Do you think Mei and Saji are doing well?" Dennis' question had a shadow of concern, which himself could not explain.
"Doing just fine, those two. Gazing, over the edge, in the westernmost part of the Old Continent."
Dennis heard his lovers remark, as if they issued the most fundamental logic and common sense. He slightly opened the balcony door, feeling the soft wind of Summer, observing the nearby palmtrees, outside in the street. He glanced at a closed book, marked in the middle, with contempt. Dennis wondered if it was really worth the endeavour, to continue to read it - words which were left by a specter of obscurantism -, Dennis thought. Product of the twisted mind of Julius Evola.
Dennis rather decided to observe, instead, the horizon. The full Moon partially illuminated the nearby firmament, uncovering, in the dark of sky and stars, the small pieces of cloud, typical of the West Coast, that suspended in the air here and there. Was anything worse than sleeping, and not having domination over one's thoughts, in this he was thinking.
Almost in silent voice, he blew to the quiet and silent night, reanimating, in his head, the sight of a crumbling Moon and of a mystical ark, "Death is only the beggining..."
At that instant, a detonation of a flaming mushroom was about to craft a cancer on the very land, where the winds of Winter often blew, in the westernmost part of the New World.
Michael Maximiliano
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