soil of a flower’s pristine flame

September 5, 2011


Eleven years have elapsed since the air changed…In! Out! In! enkindled-energy, cerebral, atmospheric, the entirety of humane-substance: inexperienced-spirits, men, women and children, consumed in tiny breaths…Magnificence! ignorant at 1st, though steadily through time, every active mind naturally perceived the healthy balance between significance and essence…Beating Hearts! life and death, infinite-friendship, each patiently suffered, yet still simultaneously thrived on an unanimous belief…Thinking! actual-contemplation, immaculate rivers and streams, unobstructed flowing thought…Excellence! rushing, over-whelmed and splitting, solitary-souls enriched with particularly potent atomic-structures soon stood apart, carefully watching…Loyalty! driven, incorruptible beings who whole-heartedly understood the purity of truth…Honorable! fixation, border-lined insane and crazed, their redeveloped minds raced…Heightened! and ablaze, eyes aglow with orange-fire, each and all incapable of holding any energetic-morsel back…Fulfillment! inborn completion, full-throttled and alive, each obsessively pondered upon the finality of their duty…Hypnotic! and sleep-inducing, an anesthetic thrill, quiet stillness…Hush! picturesque, captivated and lost, this day-dream of ones own resting grave guided them, steadied them, connecting them all to an everlasting bond…Authenticity! inflexible and fixed, a steadfast obligation, protect and serve…Innocence! though a tenderly woven thread, delicately affixed, fastening youth to dreams…Alas! prophetical-visions, independence, religion and lies, ironically are buried side by side…Hurrah! Hurrah! governments and currencies, strangely too, simultaneously vanish with them…Faith! anew, genuine, wide-eyed blossoms, ladies and gentle-men, humans, gradually, in unison, live humanely…Possibilities! afresh, newly opened minds dismantle and remodel, sky-rises are ripped to pieces…Subtle! and efficient, broken homes become mended, family structures thrive once again under spacious ventilation…Deeply! taken breaths, dismembered cars and recycled broken glass, yet an enriched clarity steadily leaves scratches atop old unhealed scars…Phantoms! both dormant and active, inherit secrets, a consistent percentage sneak, cleverly hidden behind well-endowed smiles…Guilt! hovering particles of air, necessary ingestion, though obesity is dead, the fat from excess pleasure flourishes…Vibrant! suspectable-hearts, the whiff of disloyalty lingers, pulsating nostrils, like inspirited dogs, a hunt commences…Inception! sweat’s begun to drip, a visible glisten reflects from off their skin, burned over & over again, the anatomical glow of a new dawn fathers them laboriously onward.

Part I


Shit! Blood! Cum! he figures them all of identical concoctions, each inevitably will, most likely, spontaneously explode, feral thoughts, breakable hearts, his eyes a titian-shade squint tightly though entirely shut, helplessly enveloped by the pressures of an unmistakable clear sky. Once again he’s lured by the clarity inherently inside him, fire, flames, a world set perfectly ablaze, an imaginative glow flickers softly against the rigid contours of his ashen complexion. Further & further, well-beyond it’s unquestionable warmth, penetrates an imperceptible ringing at an unintelligible speed, as if sub-conscientiously arranged specifically to be thought meaningless. His ignorance is bliss-less, dizziness, nausea now confusion, another day begins through a single deep breath, a grimace and a sigh, every moment after is tortuously misinterpreted, theoretically giving him-self less time to waste-away. Just then an inanimate breeze moves tirelessly past, it’s troubling, he waits, now only a second ago that very reflection elapsed concurrently with perspiration glistening his skin, he looks off, momentarily, both earthward and distant, any freedom left to feel felt overtly amiss. If only, an old fancy sharpens slightly, man had evolved from a some species of bird, perhaps then his aspiration to independently soar, would now be naturally absent of doubt. Memories atop other sticky-remnants, women, men, an extensive past gathering and selling, endlessly clipping our angelic ability to fly-off, to aspire, to sprightly vanish in an instant.

Unequivocally full of it! he stares impulsively down towards the enthusiastic crowd, yet unlike impending clouds, thunder and rain, he feels uneasy by it’s spirited influence; a sudden gust, strength, significance, his demeanor cools some, this evaporation of sweat from-off his skin quickly reminds him again he too is vulnerable like them. As seconds slip away, the nausea subsides, with another breath all dizziness ceases. “I believe in something!” though soft, this internal phase carries truth, a purity he’s determined to understand slowly; patience, taken carefully, easy does it, he gingerly descends, hardy soles rap against iron steps, loosened flecks of rust trickle downward, spin & twist, reflecting tiny glimpses of the burning sun. The numbing effects of heat and moisture cause his pace to slow a-little more, like hot-piss in the shoes, the humidity further discourages his concern to keep moving-on. Soft, humble breaths, a firm wish to remain calm sustains itself a moment longer; rich, stronger pleas, an inner voice again speaks-out against the inevitable consequences brought forth by pretending too long: an ache, forever endless, his head’s begun to hurt a-lot. Thoughts of opaque smoke, the burn once more starts in, sensed immediately, tingling, spreading, like the crawl of fire set initially ablaze an affable fuel; feelings continue to accelerate, steadily, his mind perceives itself to shine, though intimately licked by spreading-flames; bright-flashes, placed all around him, pop like privileged stars, the disbelief is startling.

Abundant transparencies! he’s shivering completely now, both hands tremble at their appropriate sides, open & flexed, the shakes are steadily circulated out by pumped-blood. Quieter attempts to breathe are taken, his insight routinely opens and shuts, gradually once again light breaks from-under his resistant eye-lids, in an instant he feels the expansion of his pupils shrink, an immediate sense of reduction takes ahold; like a sententious cramp upon the testicle, he retains an overpowered look. It’s consistence is moving, although encouraged to stand perfectly motionless, he’s still utterly exposed, like any other wingless being, to the incessant spiral spun by reality’s gravitational-spin; perpetually pulled-back, he thinks, an escape of any kind was, no doubt, something unreasonable to dream about: the sheer length from one perception to the next…Buzzing! it’s vibration, like a staunch push, adequately nudges his attention off in another direction. He’s reached the bottom, firm earth beneath him, yet he remains mesmerized completely upon a pair of winged-insects hovering inches above a bed of open flowers: red-roses, white-tulips, their affection forms an amorous bond: both parties sustaining a raw devotion towards the other, neither possessing the need to negotiate terms, but instead each voluntarily give & take. Such balance, his mind’s become active again, the pace of his breathing too levels, giving only just enough oxygen to the brain to acceptably function; a soft breeze passes, his eyes move ahead, pleasantly following the sway of the enlivened branches of near-by trees.

Ghost-like in design! he contemplates for a time , solidity, an idea perceived frequently by the rouse of goose-bumped flesh, specifically theirs, a yearly passage from life in-to death, then back, visible scarring from seasons past justly describe a tempestuous trip. He journeys forward, not too far, day-dreaming in space where questions no longer perspire, a surplus of dark-energy surrounds him, the spaciousness from one neighbor to the next is enlightening. Reds, yellows, blues, light is engulfed with age, steadily the rate of speed to his own existence intensifies by altering colors, every subtlety is accurately felt; an endless sensation has now returned his skin back entirely to an egg-shell white. Back again he realizes quickly, tensions and sweat are tell-tale signs that his illustrious bubble had burst. Still upon the trees, his eyes have become blood-shot, an incidental stinging causes them to also tear-up a-little, their descent down his face is slowed a-bit by the weathered stubble left alone to help reflect away the febrile heat. Like precise lasers, sun-beams pierce the foliage of the revered trees, he nods respectively towards them, indubitably envious of their steadfast ability to prosper from such relentless pressure. His head’s begun to throb, as he knows it inevitably would, it’s unique rhythm is not unlike, he imagines, the habitual thrust of a serial rapist, both illogical and perverse. He feels, as if, something now absent, was taken, leaving in it’s place an uncertain belief, that in truth, whatever was thought gone, was never actually worth missing at all.


 Onward now, focus! his plea is clear, gentle, thoughtfully said aloud inside the head, it’s benevolence, essentially, is the only sanity he’s left. But still, presently he hesitates, searching, trying terribly to obtain just enough interest to sustain that 1st step, knowing then, probably, momentum will eventually take over the helm. Enthusiasm, motivation, they simply don’t excite him sufficiently, ambition alone is so often long extinguished merely to remain asleep. Yes, perhaps a day-dream, he considers, will inspire him to move, shit-no, he concludes, remembering how little concentration he’s got. Restless, his point of reference falls to his boots, their dull, irregular shine makes him smile, it’s apparent likeness to the curiosity, so far, he’s been able to conjure-up felt hilarious. Laughter, he thought about carefully, how terribly wonderful, he believes almost immediately, he felt. It’s passing is glorious, slow, like a morphine-drip scientifically set to trickle simultaneously with the moment when one urinates, how fabulous, though brief, this contentious sense of freedom thrills him beautifully. The tendency to wander away is held-off, instead he genuinely contemplates heading-on. Countless in number, so he perceives them, trails of white gravel branch off ahead, at his previous height, he’d envisioned a threatening spider-web. Even now, still, he’s cautious, visions of struggling insects, flies, moths, the scarce butterfly, to watch something lovely die, for more than a minute he reconsiders a full retreat.

War war war! you’ll be pouring yourself a drink soon enough, he muses, no worries, the others are careful not to stare, but they too held interest to what things he thought about. Women and men, gossip was without question in the air; naturally, no doubt, curiosity would ripen whenever an agent was around. The light-grey fatigues, their auroral hue of the eyes, there were the obvious things, however, agents were most befittingly identified by an indigenous poise, a grace, at times most would unanimously agree they floated. But of-course he presumed the opposite, believing, at-least about himself, moved along indeed attached, as if by actual chains, destined to only go a short distance from-out the vacant abyss in-which they stretched. Deep within it, he’s enticed to walk quickly, sensitivities though reptilian, have come alive, a particular entity has been detected amongst the nearby atmosphere. His eyes still visibly brighten somewhat, year after year, he’s figured, has exchanged a once spiritual-high with a more chemical one; never-the-less, the hunt, if only for a moment, revives the disheartened life within him. Each previous, perhaps every other, successful kill brought, if recalled truthfully, only a temporary sense of accomplishment, honestly, he recollects a-bit deeper, the most memorable thing was when his life was given the chance to penetrate the belief in death more extensively. Dying someday, he hypothesizes, doesn’t quite compare to the idea of dying today.

Just then! it’s reminiscent, a dampened sound, like distant whistling, catches his attention, stopping completely to understand it more, he discovers an older man to his left, frightened some, his face, as if a moment ago held all memory, resembled now a well-detailed portrait of a forgotten child. The two stare, the feeble space in-between was the equivalent of a heavy barrel held against a throbbing temple; satisfaction had become spiral, again & again, the beginning, the end, just another simple extinction. Strenuous breathing, lock-jaw, the man stood frozen by life, a realistic surprise, his heart, now alive, is undeniably beating at an atypical rate. Living, the other wonders, wasn’t it something to be actually felt, this mystery they so readily assumed so often confused him terribly; goosebumps enkindled his skin, he’s honored, but still he knows it’s duration isn’t lasting; however, the expiration begins much too soon, oh so horribly too soon, he reflects over & over, the instant it ended, feeling genuinely saddened by the customary disappointments it leaves behind. Sickened a-little from the passing, he stumbles upon a moment to see what surrounds them: it’s temporarily pleasing, youthful, freeing, but also pretend. Fabrications, a half-dozen or so, delicately crafted, carefully made to look safe, protecting, each a fictitious palace for a pubescent-human to escape in; an acceptable place to dream, to question their eventual disappearance from childhood. He stares adamantly at the painted false-door of one, projecting, tragically, the prison that’s been placed inside them.


“Well, the for love of cholesterol and butter, a Loyalty-Agent…” his appearance, though surgically lifted, seems almost boyish now, “I can’t say I’ve ever sold to one of your kind before.”

“Today is not the day that will change…” he speaks evenly, interested in neither intimidating nor comforting this man. “My name is Ambrose, shall we step behind the curtain and talk privately?” The man nods and obeys: a crowded room it seems they’ve entered into, small birds in smaller cages sing out, either excited or scared by a sudden, detectable surge brought forth by this someone so very different from the master they’ve known. “Have you an official-identity-card?”

“Yes sir…I’ve it someplace…” his hands explore his many hiding spots, “Ah, here we are. It’s restricted, as you can see…It’s drink.” The customary-exchange proceeds: his thumb presses down, as the other does the same, the card held in-between, appropriately heats-up, turning from red to transparent, a slight pinkish-glow remains. Now activated, he let goes, giving the other a moment to summarize his activities. “Can I offer you a something? I’ve only a lower-spirit afraid, credit’s been very slow.” His manner is kind, well-practiced and disciplined.

“That’s greatly needed, thank you.” his eyes haphazardly study a tiny screen, it’s flipped and turned by his agile thumbs.

“I haven’t much familiarity with Agents, so don’t take offense of my ignorance.” two frosted glasses are half-way filled. “Here you are Ambrose, it’s comforting to know you drink. Is that strange you think?”

“It’s mutual actually, my nerves are often shot to pieces. Thank you.” the cards returned to the man.

“Would you rather we sit?” his hand gestures like a natural showman, indicating towards a pair of chairs seated just within the opening, giving the other an intimate sense that we’re all just a push away from another place entirely.

“I would.”

“Made’em myself, a life-time ago.” he smiles, ejaculating quickly, in detail, the appropriate steps. “So what do you think, soft right?

“Yes, quite.” he remarks, honestly, one leg crossing the next, his eyes follow the ripples in the curtain; it’s motion compliance the alcoholic trance, soothing the weary wrinkles on his brow; a nice silence ensues, for the moment he drifts-off, lazily taken aback; the buzz held-on oh-so softly.

“So, anything interesting?” his question’s not properly received, the other merely stares back blankly.”My ID, any red-flags?” he states again, a connoisseur of small-talk.

“Couldn’t say. I checked the weather.”

“So why ask for it?”

“To see your reaction.”

“Ha Ha! Of course…’To see your reaction’ You can tell a-lot about someone by their reaction to certain questions, then?”

“It’s a reliable tool.”

“So what did my reaction tell you, Ambrose?”



“I didn’t comment much attention to it. I’d only real concern for the 3-day forecast.”

“Your joking.”

“Never about the weather. It’s the air we breath-in.”


“I’ve many sensitivities to…”

“No no, so what’s the forecast then?”

“Have you a interest in the weather too?”

“Not as much as you, but since it’s such a passion, why not.”

“Much the same.”

“Hot and humid, then?”

“It’s going to be a real scorcher.”

“Are all Agents so…particular about the weather?”

“It is the air we breathe-in.”

“Yes, you’d said. And this is concerning?”

“It’s maddening.”

“Still? The winds have subsided for many years now.”

“The effects are no less influential.”

“Ah yes…the air, I’m sure I knew this. You smell things, right? Agents have a strengthened sense of smell.”

“No, there’s no odor to it. It’s more of a reaction to something very particular we breathe-in.”

“Like allergies, then?”

“In a way.”

“What exactly, then?”


“Disloyalty!…yes, I knew this, I’m sure of it. So you sense a disloyalty here then, Ambrose, I assume?”

“Is it necessary for me to explain?”

“No no, there’s no need for that…I’ve little doubt to what it is that concerns you.”

“It’s a concentration even a young agent would probably not miss.”

“I’m not entirely sure why, how or when I collected so many.”

“But you’ve no doubt some understanding?’

“As I mentioned, credit’s been slow.”

“Man, I’ve concluded, sustains a diabolic desire to be found-out, to be noticed somehow. It’s his lugubrious quest to be immortal.”

“And you can smell, sense this I mean?”

“In every exhaled breath.”

“Is it more potent in some? Does age matter any?

“Age, like nature, is more often than never, an unreliable power. It’s unhealthy to depend on it as we do food and water.”

“True, I’m frequently confused as to how old I actually feel. My mind and body rarely concede anymore a relationship towards the other…Very seldom does any man wish to be lonesome, so if he hasn’t them to depend on, then he’s got trouble.”

“Shit-loads, I’d imagine.”

“But Agents handle being alone better than most, I’d wage. I can’t say I’ve seen two of you together, even once.”

“That stems from our implicit pursuit to self-deconstruct, by our-selves.”

“Ha ha ha! So there’s no interaction at all between you?”

“We’ll talk on occasion.”

“That all?”

“Talk can be quite exhausting.”

“But what about sex?”

“Sex is an entirely different sensation. It’s simply undesired between agents, it would contest our incessant need to escape from our-selves. A balance, you understand?”

“Professionals, then?”

“They furnish an invaluable service.”

“Strange to believe that just a few years ago, their trade was considered illegal…Laws! It’s astounding to me now, that we found them necessary for so long…We were greater fools then, I guess…Have you many memories of that time, Ambrose?”

“There are the dreams I’d forgotten.”

“Things you wished you’d done?”

“Just dreams.”

“In your sleep, you mean?”


“Do you not dream anymore?”


“And they’re remembered?”


“And this troubles you?”


“That’s too bad, Ambrose. Personally, I’ve not noticed much difference. It’s all to do with age, I’ve often read, at the time.”

“I’ve heard that also.”

“The middle folk, 20’s and 30s. A real tragedy for some.”

“For many!”

“There are drugs, I’ve just recently read about, that are said to help; but only minimal. It’s said, of coarse by the older generations, our progress is slowed considerably by the absence of animal testing.”

“Fools do still live amongst us.”

“Have you thought of trying such drugs?”

“In the history of man, he’s never one to be  short of drugs.”

“So you’ve tried them?”

“The Essence-Houses are a regular stop of mine.”

“Ah yes…I can’t say I’ve ever been, but I’ve heard only positive things…Again, other thing once illegal. What’s so different now?”

“The mind. It’s ability to comprehend truths: sex, drugs, when fully grasped become part of an essential diet of sensations.”

“Something we never understood before?”

“Just mere distractions.”

“To distract us from what?”

“The responsibilities of an open-mind.”


“Thought. To think on your own carries a great encumbrance.”

“I’m sure. And you suppose The Winds are what’s helped this…evolutionary step.”

“It is the air we breath-in!”

“Is there much pressure being an Agent, living with such ideas?”

“No more or less, I’d imagine, than a bird stuck in a cage.”

“Ah!…So the end’s finally come then, Ambrose?”

“Any evidence I’ve seen, tells me nothing ever does.”


Pain!! the sprouting soul from a composing body not his own, apathy, dusk, the platform on-which he now broods, sits too, totally infused by a bright, yet fading, indifference. The short distance he’s allowed his mind to explore lessens in gradual increments, soon just an inch within his view reverses quickly, steadily the blur of a setting sun becomes clear. Boo-Who! he humors himself, it’s departing rays run plumb down the cities 3 o’clock avenue, setting fire to his unshaven face; lit like vanquished flames, the few copper hairs he’s left promptly dwindle in color. His smile coincides with the pink-sky turning purple, then black. Street-lights begin flickering, as if coerced by an invigorated heart of infinite power, their rhythmic palpitations induce an almost hypnotic allure; blinking rapidly, broken-bits and pieces, his brain comes close to seizing completely. Shut now, resting, he gives his absorbent insight a break, the darkness is perfect, both wide-spread and inanimate. A cooled breeze pushes past, rubbing quietly against him atop the skin, like an experienced, effeminate hand, he concedes it’s his favorite speed of friction. Indolently, his eyes open again, the area’s lightened by a yellowish glow that’s casual, only lazily inspired to show which way goes where. Straight forward towards the conceptualized end, his interest followed the magnetic tracks, back then repeated, from afar his eyes appear to roll though progressively down a hill; little by little his focus levels. Head-on, he stares now at an oncoming train, it’s headlight burning like a resplendent cannon-ball, as if fired upon by some distant ship, he’s enlivened by the thought of a devote captain who continues to fights a futile war, all the while perfectly aware he remains aboard an inevitable sinking vessel.

Oceanographic! his mind plunges into deep, chilly waters, the freezing sensation exhilarates him; gasping for breath, he looks upward at far-off stars, dead or alive, it’s a fascinating thing the elasticity of light. Frozen-to-the-bone, he floats along comfortably, innocently adrift, daydreaming to the numbness of the guiding currents. Up & down, it’s continuous, this duration-sickness, an unconvincing tidal-wave crashing on shore, only to retreat over & over, concurrently taking-away unsuspecting particles of sandy beach. Washed upon the brim, he feels immediately this unrelenting tug & pull, his limbs feel taken from, then returned again into their appropriate sockets; though stupefied, it still really hurts. His eyes sting terribly, yet eventually, he’s soon astounded by an enormous burning circle in the sky.Very similar to the moon, melting slowly, he interrupts, with only a minor delay, that the heavenly object seems incapable of sustaining any self-control; receding quickly, he’s hastily reminded of his own philosophies and dreams. A thickening haze rolls-in from some abandoned place of his mind, the clarity to his own decline; he thinks gently, where exactly is he. Stuck again, it was easy, in yet another unoccupied premonition, confusion and things hovering above him, he stands quieted, listening for any feeling that will bring things back. There it is, a soft buzz, moving swiftly towards him, open and closed, his eyes tell the brain he’s now once more merely just another waiting passenger. To the right, to the left, he’s become bothered at an idea that perhaps he’s missed his ride.

Too shitty! he pouts, ah hostility, to be perpetually aware of every-place you are, figments in the air, in-out-in, will he ever truly sleep again. Not since the winds of 2012, memorable gusts, creeping in slowly, and yet it felt, he flashes back, like a lightning-strike. Awoken, enkindled, the whole sum of his understanding radiating within him, conjointly frozen and ablaze, month after month enveloped with goose-bumped skin; euphoria, pain, an epic array of sensations appear to almost ripen instantly before his eyes; brightened colors blossom containing unfamiliar flavors, disoriented taste-buds struggle to comprehend such impossible correlations. He wears a blank expression for days on end, concluding each evening lost in the streets starting fights with invisible figures who consistently leave him beating upon himself. The entire world too, he sees, has thoughtfully gone mad alongside him, as if evoked by something truly sane, the strangeness, to most, almost instantly, makes perfect sense. Layers of ignorance seem to peel-away day by day, strength, intolerance, an honest intensity forges ahead impolitely destroying man’s precious foundation of greed and decadence: presidents and tyrants, wealth, worshiped-propheteers, in a year’s time much of world’s poison is expeditiously sucked clean; oil drums and celebrities, steadily folk began to see how abundantly infected we were. Soon billboards become portraits, brush-strokes and sprayed-paint, fresh depictions detail in blatant styles how beautiful an advertised-free city can be. Product-placements, movie-stars and super-athletes, the entity within one’s profession evolves, plumbers and farmers, women, men, every able person realizes their dependence of the other; money becomes frivolous, instead each comprehends the true value of quality work.

Who who! an inquisitive whistles blows, he follows carefully an approaching train come to a brief stop, routinely sympathetic of it’s timely schedule to keep circling forever, and ever. Like a snake or dragon, he admires it’s reptilian skin, black absorbent scales, yet another creature empowered by the sun. Once again, he lingers some, tending to an accompanying feeling brought on by the presence of a superior being, a rush blood, sweat, he understands utterly how little control man has on the thoughts he has, and direction they’re taking him. A flicker of light, far-off, just north beyond the distant mountain range, a thunder-storm was forming. He smiles, a future that’s promising, it’s an enthralling vision one which is flooded with rain: water that pours from the sky, it sounded too absurd, and yet like the wind, it contained more sense than the whole historic population of men. Women too? Huh! he ponders just a moment more, wandering through an effeminate embodiment  of time and wonder. Yes! no doubts, he concludes, so so much worry and fear. Another flash coincides with his initial step inside, the awaiting travelers look to him like children who have just witnessed their very 1st lightning-bolt, he finds wide-eyes and open mouths. An alien on display, his insecurities feel mental-pictures being taken in a strobe-light fashion, the oddities and myths still associated with agents was often debilitating. He nods politely, standing quickly in the nearest, darkest corner the train-car had to offer him.


To ascend, glide or soar! it’s affection he’s truly after, safety really, a movement like no other, an emotion taken completely alone, specifically, an active pursuit for a whimsical getaway. His peripheral’s entranced by the passing lights, as if blasted through outer-space, color and shine: there came the orderly thrill of riding the train. Elevated, smooth, he relishes, for a regular time, upon the commitment that man routinely makes to ensue the comfort of another’s daily-commute: numerous nuts, bolts, wires stretching for miles, all the train’s most personal secrets properly kept, and rightly hidden from the populace by tidy-sheets of recycled metals. Bravo! well-deserved, he bows his head, briefly picturing  inside his mind, himself standing side-by-side with the working-man, hand-in-hand with men, awestruck by what it must feel-like to accomplish something useful with another. Amazement! he turns now to his own up-turned palms: effeminate, clean, spic & span, were they really that tragic? Would they never feel that touch of such closeness. “Comradery!” it’s spoken beautifully, whispered, meant only for himself to listen for, after, to repeat over & over in hopes the energy will find him someday unaware, sound-asleep and praying never to wake again. Ding ding! a warning sounds, the 3/3 stop must be approaching, the train’s begun to slow, he reaches, now holds tightly to a vertical-pole set there purposely to help counter-act gravities goal in seeing us appear a klutz. Ding ding! it’s doors start to open-up, his hand gradually drops, step by step, he’s cautious not fall.

Easy does it! his enthusiasm’s watched carefully, the descent is gentle, retarded if need-be, a necessity taken, approximately this time each day, to help ensure, at-least to some degree, his focus remains presently intact, functional. Undeniably luv-lee, already his thoughts have almost ditched him totally, thwarting all possibility to care any further; reality, responsibility, the concept of either escapes him, happily. Spacious, it’s envisioned, space of his own: cool, dark, empty, an etching of a cave, a dulled pencil lays beside it though exhausted, depicting, dramatically, both the intensity and shade used to achieve it. Closer and closer, he knows how close he must be…Laughter! sweet, girlish, definitely not his own, hilarious, he comes to slowly, yet willingly, the sound of something so…he careless just enough to allow the pleasure of it to last a moment longer than it would otherwise once defined. He stares, as if diagnosed moonstruck, towards the shadowed ground, however, the distance between him and it, is limitless; he’s again lost, lingering a moment in the twinkling stars above. Innocence? his visions return, flickering, flashes pass by quick, meaningless, fuzzy, like the fluctuating static of a softly blown flame. The warmth’s incomplete, more accurately, inexperienced; but still, what he feels is quite substantial, eager, no question warmblooded. Breathing-in, strength takes him by surprise, the source is near, especially, as imminent as his very next breath…In-Out-In—Out! where was it, the hairs atop his skin, insistent, probe the air.

“Evening!” a delicacy, from behind him.

Turning, he’s shoved, his perception, backward in time. “Dreams!”

“Dreams?” her response is calm, low-key, not flashy though an echo, but curious, as if her memory too, were renewed by an old request.

“Maybe…No, I’m certain.” she’s a perfect conception: beauty, strength, an independence which felt alive, adjoined also by an invigoration, identified easily from it’s respect, in relation, to death.

“Your certain of what, exactly?” she’s engrossed, altogether, by what’s taking shape within an out-of-body experience.

“Of your resemblance to a dream I once had, regularly.” he’s helpless, staring like a young-man who still perceives women as irreproachable bodies made of magical-stuffing.

“Was this only a dream, is my similarity only just pretend?” she smiles, releasing towards him, an irresistible essence which she, he knew, held complete control of.

“I’m afraid, the shoes in-which I’m standing in now, tell me yes.” the raw substance in-between them subsides some, each breathes, the passing seconds eventually succumb to history, energy and time, the pair’s apparent-dance continues to move, but to a much slower-tune, keeping a steadier sense of romance.

“So your Agent 3 of the 1st 10?”

“Agent 3 of the 1st 10?…I’ve always been called Ambrose.”

“We no longer associate by name. They say it infers arrogance, an identity above the cause. I’m a recent graduate, Agent 1-0-3. To think where only a hundred minds away. Ten years, they say.”

“Hundred minds? Ten years? I haven’t a single clue.”

“The E.T…Have you really never heard of it? It’s in the most current issue of The Common Bond?”

“I know nothing of current events…Ah! unless you consider the weather? It’s going to be a real scorcher.”

“Haven’t you read your issue? It’s the duty of all Agents to familiarize themselves with what’s happening.”

“The E.T…Is what exactly?”

“The Existence Theorem. It theorizes the age of the mind. An Agent’s, for examples, matures 1o yrs to every 1 year, of any other healthy-person.”

“Like a cat, or dog?”

“It’s a remarkable discovery. The human-race changed, in-a-flash, and only a tiny tiny few have even a faintest clue as the how much exactly. It’s vital we understand what’s happening to us. Don’t you think for sake of any future we should at-least try?”

“I expect the future will eventually kills us all, agent 103. Whether it’s a monkey who eats the whole banana, or a grow man who peels it, the sole importance to life is to slowly chew.”

“What’s your point?”


“I guess it’s true what they say about you…You are perhaps an exception to the E.T..”

“And you came to find-out for yourself?”

“The way they talk about you, it would make anyone curious.”

“Well, I was helpless then, in those days they speak of. My mind had never been so alive. The places an opened one will take you.”

“Yes, that’s exactly my point . There are so so many who struggle with what’s happen to them since The Winds came. Do you spend much time at the facility on C-9?”

“Truthfully, I don’t leave my room unless I can help it.”

“That’s funny you should say that, because that’s exactly what’s happening. The clarity people once spoke highly about, seems now to be too sharp to understand. Words and sounds, the world’s become a mess, a loud and scary mess. It’s chaos, and it’s getting worst every year.”

“With every breath!”


“Maybe six months into the period scientists stated the winds had begun, doctors declared that man had been cured of most diagnosed mental-health disabilities: Schizophrenia, for example…I’ve often doubted that man really actually changed at all, but instead merely began to understand, in-an-instant, as you’ve mentioned, what previous men, one’s thought crazy at the time, had been screaming about all-along.”

“So you think Schizo-p-h-r-e-n….”


“Right, has come back.”

“I’ve no idea, what I am saying is, that man has always been influenced by whatever been floating about in the air. Only now, it seems, in a greater number. The brain’s not changed, only the amount we use.”

“Yes, that’s been made abundantly clear. Doubled in a few cases. But of-coarse they eventually go to pieces, literally in a case or two, taring themselves apart. It’s horrible.”


“There’s no time to wait.”

“But where waiting now.”

“What’s your point?”

“Hard to say. I have become hungry, I know.”

“For a banana, no doubt.”


For a banana, no doubt! he’s chuckled, on and off, for about an hour now, in-between laughter, he wondered, somewhat seriously, what difference, if any at all, there was of the girl he’d just seen, and the one dreamt about years before. He lays atop the bed, having showered and eaten a-little, staring upward in the dark, like a span of uninterrupted space, or an expanse of tundra, the ceiling above looks, to him, a rather chilly place. Shivers, goose-bumps, he’s not prepared to be frost-bitten, but of-coarse he never is, when life deems-it necessary to obliterate any thoughts of a gradual ascent. Was he actually frozen-solid, or merely stiff by the suddenness in-which the temperature changed. His breath! it hovers above him, steadily vanishing as if it’s only just now meant-to-be forgotten, fresh breaths, dangling, he questions whether or not this experience is helpful at all. An arctic-blast, the purity amazes him, immediately exchanges the previous blackness with an elaborate cloud of white flakes: afloat, drifting, their demeanor is no-less than carefree. He ponders such freedom, a permission, self-given, to dream with a complete absence of obstacles, hindsight and apprehension, a wide-open imagination empowered without direction. A removed ocean, lifted-off, no longer tugged and pulled at, but carried-away gently, it’s violence and uproar slosh a-bit upon the edges: crashing waves, they’re mere glimpses, but the clarity’s quite a lengthy display, life, wholeheartedly, depended on such passion.

Rivers, floods! he feels the stream of a tear, unhurried, though drowsy, this particular emotion felt kinda good, it was more an extension of him, it’s personal-depth, so far, had not reached any abnormally tender part. Brain-waves, an only slightly elevated, beating heart, he was certainly moved, yet, thankfully, the trajectory seemed to be a more pleasing one. However, he’d no specific clue as to what position he was now situated in. The confusion wasn’t whether or not he still lay in bed, his concern rested totally upon distinct pressures, mounting as he slept, his body, if improperly entangled, will arise horribly sore, wicked stiff. Again! another rush with an aspect of death, his surroundings, moments ago, had turned transparent, now a pinkish glow starts to gingerly show itself. Like an effeminate shading of love, he’s initially enchanted, the war that was inevitably coming was still disguised by this girlish inveracity, little white-lies, and an even brighter smile. Insanity! to think, it’s believed, that it’s men who enjoyed battle more, weaponry, a facial-expression, he’s now confronted, can be as searing to the heart as any other heated projectile deliberately thrown to wound. Green eyes, white skin and black hair, her camouflage is immaculate, timeless, she’d aged beautifully, though in truth, not at all; he’s entirely confident, by her skillfully crafted expression, that it’s not love she’s after. Hostility! how frightfully hot it can get, as if an actually exhaled breath, he’s begun to leak real beads of bona-fide sweat.

Shit! he’s just realized, and it saddens him, how obnoxiously soaked, come morning, his bed-sheets will be. He blows urgently atop his arms, in hopes this will act as some sort of signal to the brain to relax. Soon, not long after, a dizzy spell sets-in, he’s lightheaded, unstable, the face before his own becomes blurry, it’s a wondrous thing, perhaps now he’ll be spared, the interaction that was sure to come appeared psychologically impossible; the sheer focus needed for a cognitive image to scream was a rather potent thing, even to speak took nerve. It’s her eyes that are last to fade completely, they match-up sublimely with a rich family of trees, pining slowly, conversing until their very last speck of breath was gone. He’s left now alone wondering, maybe, it’s feasible, she hadn’t sought a fight, possibly her memory thought only to explore the vast emptiness of conversation; it, he knew, was vital such ventilation, as this, needed to be let out. Constipation, comes to mind, memories, like bodily waste, filled valuable space, the mind too, if ignored, would soon turn septic. Sickly! he’d acknowledged long ago, that man, himself included, was utterly full of shit, from head to toe, women too, who daily fart and cough indecisive on which is more inappropriate to do in public. Confusion! was this cowardice, huh, he wasn’t sure, or, like small children who simply can’t resist twirling in circles, was it that, we the people, were more spontaneously private, and we, rather than fear embarrassment, simply enjoyed further the individual experience of being human.

Warmth! was there a connection beginning to form between them, he’d need conformation 1st, before he’d believe-it; and so, his eyes open slow, bright and sunny, nope, he supposed not, the affection he’d confused for friendliness, was merely another day breaking-in just beyond his room’s single window: curtain-less, it never took long for his evening’s privacy to be taken-away. A new day! he’d often heard said, fresh, a day that yesterday could never touch, because time only circles, his own birth, a moment that too wouldn’t be seen again for a long, long ways off. A hero’s funeral! he doubts what strength he’d left capable, even to wish a fond farewell to his own unborn-self. If only man would die as children, 30 years before middle-age, than heaven, a poetic description he’d once read aloud, would be a vastness of much greener pastures, and youth would of become an age-old-custom; it’s full potential wholly realized, the artist having lost all interest in painting a self-portrait. His room too, is place without reflecting-glass, however, the aches and pains come as no surprise, if only he’d awakened an hour sooner, than perhaps the skeleton, he perceived he was, would feel slightly less pathetic. “Whiskey, with the yolk of an egg!” what he’d just heard was perfectly clear, yet exactly where it came, he wasn’t certain at all. “Never-the-less.” he speaks aloud, on purpose; up, and to his room’s kitchenette, he begins to prepare his breakfast: a crack of an egg, and twist of a bottle, he thinks, Ok, sure, to a new day.

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