Written by : Maximilian Liberatilis
At first there were blinded stars... oh, I can't do this. Come on, pull yourself together, you are a writer, and a good one, indeed. Just few steps, some cagingspots, nothing special, it's all in your head, packed wickedly together with some great fragments of style. A moment of genius. Miraculous. Miracolous myxomatosis in my sultry mind. Let it go..
all fades away when u're treading the path of ghosts. An old song. Not so wrong, i guess. Earth is eating me with his coloured teeth of spleed and spite. Oh god, all that iernjktrbktr-s me off. So to say. Nevertheless, John was still sleeping in his cousy bed with two rosy apples on the wooded table. It was warm and quiet.
There was a man. Bearing two empty bottles in his hand, they are my friends' he sayed. His staying with us, until the end.
You mean, in which sense ? You see, he's eternal.
And what's in there ?
Two halfs of my bisected gist.
He halted a while, then continued without warning, making me jump of my seat.
Yeah.. it was odd, wasn't it ? Me sitting in the middle of dessert, on my snug easy-chair. Felt almost like home.
He started to sang a song.
Dies irae
Dies illa
Solvet saeclum en favilla
Teste davidcum sybilla
It's from Mozart, do you fancy ? he asked to awake me. I was daydreaming. Dream where, the dreamer isn't present, shadedly. And he's thinking about the writer, who has been created by another author, who created realistic you.And which of them is really you ? Furthermore, which thoughts are really your o w n.
Queries asked, non answered. I bet it's going to rain.
In desset ? Your absence of mind is starting to freak me out. And me too.. wait, there's two of us, and I'm the only one who's talking. Lunacy contagiously flowing over my face. Does madness equals sadness ? And those lost words in the middle of my wanderer soul. Pathing aimlessly. God.. is he even present.. does he even exist? Denial.. in every kind.. Gorging my bufoon substance graspingly.Let them laugh, okay ? AND WHO ARE YOU TO TELL ME ? Who is really the fictionist one. And who is the Creator? Is the author the very God of the created ones, or not ?
Symphony number twenty one please. Yes.. superb, thank you.
You seem a lonely guy, said the bottleman.
- Am I ?
-I suggest you are, he claimed.
And after all.. I think you are well-off as well, he continued is speech.
- What on earth makes you think that?
- The chair, he said, smiling broadly.
I stood up to take a little walk. My bare feet murmuring in the gold sand. The breezy puff of wind driving through me. No clouds in the sky. Not even one.Even though there is quite hot, I enjoy the weather. The windy wind. And I'm starting to forget the poky sphere inside and around me. It's vanishing like it was never there. Eternity ? Indeed so. Till the end of my time. The thought drives through me to return.. endlessly. Memento mori, the sadness of those chosen to be immortal. Or is it ? Here forever seems fair enough to me. I don't know.. I really don't know.
- John, give me your laundry !
Incognito voice, from far-far away. Who is this stranger? What does i t want ?
- JOHN, come on, answer me at once !
Oh it's her,and yet I'm still sleeping. Parallelworlds. Deem, that's just so alluring.
- I'm sleeping honey.
- What ?
Sand now pulsing in my entirely. She's gone again, and so is the bottleman, I guess.. Bummer, he was interesting.
Room number seven, says the voice from heaven.
John turned around and tried to see, where that voice had gone from. He didn't notice a thing.
Shouting silence. A moment for ones prisoned in solitude. Medulla osmium.. boiling tempora.. boiling inside the very fears of becoming Sisyphus. Sanity. Into electric fields of love and passion.
Consciuosness.. rapid truth.
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