strings. and the beginning.

chaining together the metal cuffs of art, language, creation: streams of music, threads of nightingale thoughts swooping in to bind each new link - bursts of sunrise in the reflection of the stream over solid stone brooks with water dashing along; breathless air condensing on soft grass in mornings as they walk that stoop to examine the standing puddles on structure. the infinity of chains that we can generate is so fascinating - so much to uncover, the raking garment soft and silky in a nightly piercing amid throngs of brooks dribbling along in woodlands. probably time to reanimate those silent characters bursting inside: law, aubury, troy - they wander about too, looking inside them for something more, searching around them to gather specks of inspiration. they're alive again, and they'll appear shortly.

--

incontinent of rage - the restless growl of ferocious eyes in a dark cave; that creature lurks there, the ring on its clenched fist reflecting the lack of light. much too chained and withheld in this state, this box, crossing and lying... it's not right. a place to hide with your instrument and play to your peace falls asleep the creature there, boiling dry its insides in its snores and masking the smooth smoke from its nostrils:

we meet in the parlor, shake hands, and agree to sit for a half-meal. we split an appetizer, and she claims to have the perfect portion - although she wolfs it down to the other's raised eyebrows. "you speak in everything you don't say," law mutters, and she shrugs, smiles a bit, and laughs back: "a fool-hearted gown you wear under your armor: what, are you the bride for a wedding?" the blade of his weapon lurks behind him, the rage boiling under callous skin. "what of it, ev?" law responds. the knife is behind his back, not for assassination, but not for her protection either. rather, for his own containment. "I am disappointed that my happiness may be nothing more than a series of chemical reactions; that my behavior is dictated by physical reactions, that I am trapped in a 'vesicle', that my most profound experiences can vanish by an electric missile fired through my brain. that I may be upset simply for not eating after some time, or that tiresome felt burst is nothing but lies in incandescent furies in soft-taken gushes of black." ev looks up. her plate is clean. a raised eyebrow, a murmur, a touch, a sigh. you speak in everything you don't say. "taste the air a moment, and enjoy it; you would be unable to otherwise. is that something you want to give up?" a toast to the air, earth, and soul then: a toast to this dungeon we're trapped in - because it gives us the ability to feel. law sheathes the blade, wraps his coat about himself, and departs. that fire is still burning and I can feel it warming my hands, but setting alight broiling night thoughts; angst crowds the clouds, and pours daggers to dodge. the puddles are the graveyard. meaningless. law approaches, picks up a blade, tosses it behind him. no one would be there to be harmed. we meet, silently walk together across puddles. ev watches us go, shakes her head. "what nonsense is this writer pulling out of the hat now?" she wonders - "what kind of dream space am I trapped in, that knives rain from the sky and law walks through with the author in dialogue?"

--

'tell me, please, about yourself: about the quibbles that have brought me here to assist you?' law turns to me and asks as we walk through the knife-fallen night. I breathe darts into the air, and they all miss the bullseye. 'if the universe holds truth to so many people through a book - an idea - and the mere belief in currency can drive economy, why should you not exist - an entity to believe in, another character like Above, so as to accompany my spirit?' 'makes sense,' he replies, and we plod on, kicking aside blades that stabbed the earth. 'people pray to the universe, to a grand creator; from belief comes value. don't pray for me, but certainly, we both understand that this existence... is valuable.' we pause briefly and look behind us: evelyn has decided to not follow - she has probably returned home. the clouds above look as though more knives will fall, but none do. a thrust of insanity, maybe, blending fiction and reality? 'nonsense.' Should I write publicly about those things, or do I have anything to fear? I may be misunderstood, but perhaps the world could benefit from some insight from what goes on in someone's mind... experimenting with language. law reads my thoughts, checks the knife at his belt, comparing it to some of the fallen ones. he decides his own is the best. 'lost entities, we're both real in some way... let me know if you need anything.' we split paths, and a troubling heartache begins pouring out snowy cold winters.