Winged Blue Shadows IV
Empathy. Crystal drumbeats of catatonic explanations and explications. Each mask is a disembodied memory of feelings beyond comprehension.
Life in this city is so bad. The poorhouse is a gaping maw, its breath corroding the floorboards of future rooms. Inmates stand freezing.
Whose turn next?
So indecisive. So hopeless. So removed. Each in his own dusty room, each exploring his own dark city of exhausted possibilities.
They can communicate with The Great Forever but their tongues remain rigid with fear.
Loathing – how they loathe this town, this state, this empire, this thousand-year abomination of ruined vision and fractured aspiration. The filthy air they breathe is churned out like smoke from countless industrial chimneys. Harrowing stories reach them here – but they cannot absorb any more pain “– those close to us are no more.”
Those outside will sweep away all before them as the clouds descend.
Deliver them from these rooms.
Deliver them from the hope of revenge.
They have done nothing. But still they come.
Every day in The Black Rooms they come to stand still, like figures carved from yellow clay.
Each mask is a disembodied life.
Each incomprehensible to the Other.
A C Evans