The Horrific Dream of Eight-Eighteen
The world lights up.
The monster’s machine apparitioned, materialized, and became very real just above the trees in the near-morning, nearby sky. The dog was gone now, and too soon was everything else going to be.
There was no panic, simply dread, a simple dread that would never be recorded, as there are no annals in oblivion.
And Melpomene is here, beautiful as ever. Years now since I’d seen her in the day time, her countenance equal parts diffident and indifferent. She names a place we can go, a one I’ve never heard of. It can’t be our secret, as I’ve never breathed it. I ponder getting there--contemplate what just may have been her revelation of an afterlife. Could it be a place she knows, a place she’s been? How could it be that she’s been there?
I abhor unanswered questions, how loathsome then, and unfitting an end, this is to be.
Struck to the quick by the sheer audacity of this moment to have chosen now to come into being, I double back for a second, last, long, look at Melpomene. But a moment it would’ve have taken amongst the wave of days before this one to have looked past that bodice to contemplate her mortality, more aptly the lack thereof now apparent. As I am, as I was, never once did I make it past the demand of conquest that commandeered my thoughts like electricity main-lining my brain each time she appeared, and like lightning, blew in my eyes.
Even then my conversion would’ve been nothing more than a death-bed hail mary. A quick tally is no revelation, but it would take no counting to recollect that I had spent my days championing the sweat of the deed almost as passionately as I had been assailing the false-fervor of the oath. Words so close to the margin are invariably rendered illegible in any case, whether they be smudged by the closing of the book, or disemboweled by the rending of the atmosphere.
In any event, to count myself amongst those on the ledger ticketed for salvation after spending the bulk of my days wagging-tongue deep in the muck that is the mire between folly and sin would be most unbecoming--even for an avowed hypocrite facing down his last spate of moments as a soluble being.
--
Melpomene digressed, the interlopers on the lawn just now were of no consequence, this being so simply because they were terrestrial. Of course this thought checked out only for as long as the second thought took to course the synapses to the lobe of reality where it screamed out new law – ‘all now is questioned as equally as it is forsaken.’
I’d question them here before me but I have no words, and as much as a dumb stare doesn't make much of a plaintiff’s rejoinder, I hold no aspirations for the office of procurator-at-large on the cusp of the end of the world. – And so, let it not be recorded, as nothing else will be, that there was in this world, quite literally at last, honor amongst thieves.
Front row tickets to the end of the world. What does it feel like, winning? Were there time enough afforded me to be smug, I’d let it stand as written that I went to my grave – unpoetically it is to be quite soon, at that – gloating over such an exclusive windfall. Instead I am hastily culling from my gray matter this final empty bit of binary cackling to be hefted out into the ether -- Be careful what you wish for when you say you want to win the lottery, there are all different sorts, namely one of a kind, and last one ever.
The monster’s machine apparitioned, materialized, and became very real just above the trees in the near-morning, nearby sky. The dog was gone now, and too soon was everything else going to be.
There was no panic, simply dread, a simple dread that would never be recorded, as there are no annals in oblivion.
And Melpomene is here, beautiful as ever. Years now since I’d seen her in the day time, her countenance equal parts diffident and indifferent. She names a place we can go, a one I’ve never heard of. It can’t be our secret, as I’ve never breathed it. I ponder getting there--contemplate what just may have been her revelation of an afterlife. Could it be a place she knows, a place she’s been? How could it be that she’s been there?
I abhor unanswered questions, how loathsome then, and unfitting an end, this is to be.
Struck to the quick by the sheer audacity of this moment to have chosen now to come into being, I double back for a second, last, long, look at Melpomene. But a moment it would’ve have taken amongst the wave of days before this one to have looked past that bodice to contemplate her mortality, more aptly the lack thereof now apparent. As I am, as I was, never once did I make it past the demand of conquest that commandeered my thoughts like electricity main-lining my brain each time she appeared, and like lightning, blew in my eyes.
Even then my conversion would’ve been nothing more than a death-bed hail mary. A quick tally is no revelation, but it would take no counting to recollect that I had spent my days championing the sweat of the deed almost as passionately as I had been assailing the false-fervor of the oath. Words so close to the margin are invariably rendered illegible in any case, whether they be smudged by the closing of the book, or disemboweled by the rending of the atmosphere.
In any event, to count myself amongst those on the ledger ticketed for salvation after spending the bulk of my days wagging-tongue deep in the muck that is the mire between folly and sin would be most unbecoming--even for an avowed hypocrite facing down his last spate of moments as a soluble being.
--
Melpomene digressed, the interlopers on the lawn just now were of no consequence, this being so simply because they were terrestrial. Of course this thought checked out only for as long as the second thought took to course the synapses to the lobe of reality where it screamed out new law – ‘all now is questioned as equally as it is forsaken.’
I’d question them here before me but I have no words, and as much as a dumb stare doesn't make much of a plaintiff’s rejoinder, I hold no aspirations for the office of procurator-at-large on the cusp of the end of the world. – And so, let it not be recorded, as nothing else will be, that there was in this world, quite literally at last, honor amongst thieves.
Front row tickets to the end of the world. What does it feel like, winning? Were there time enough afforded me to be smug, I’d let it stand as written that I went to my grave – unpoetically it is to be quite soon, at that – gloating over such an exclusive windfall. Instead I am hastily culling from my gray matter this final empty bit of binary cackling to be hefted out into the ether -- Be careful what you wish for when you say you want to win the lottery, there are all different sorts, namely one of a kind, and last one ever.
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