• Pacing. Research becons from the desk, but alas what passion has fled? The topic had been forgotten, though it had brought so much joy not long ago. Pacing. The goddamn walls are far too many, far too stifling, but even if escaped - what then? Pacing. Pacing. Hair's strewn and scattered, falling out in patches. 'I'd burn this ******** place, If only I had the matches'. Pacing Pacing Pacing Pacing. What piece plays from the record? It's soft, and sweet. Such an angelic melody... This slows the pace none but for a second. Stirring in the whitwash cage resumes with redoubled fervour. Before the screen where some story would be seen, something helpful, fruitful, alltogether benefitial, but No! Trappedness cannot yeild, cannot pause, cannot be broken - too stubborn, Too stubborn? Too Stubborn! No, this is far too important. The angels sing, to the bath with ye, but the crescendo is climbing, cannot miss this. The climax is nearly at the peak, no behind the horizon it looms, no surely this must be it here! Pacing. The papers on the desk stand on edge as do the hairs. Comdemning. Damnable things. For what and to what end? The drums begin. A lull in the brass. If only the head were pulled out of the a**. Or off, perhaps. Take a breath atleast, the angels plead. Alack, no! Somethings missing in deed! 'Chaos fed thee, suckled from birth, but it swept you away, wrapped ye in earth - it made you strong, yes, it made you tough, it saved you again from getting stuck - saved you always from getting in too deep'. However true, indisputably, It kept too from expertise, too fool was exposed six thousand worlds from swirling conflagration to dusty cosmology, the Devil peeped from between verses and the heavens leapt from chariots and horses. But now, those rhymes, lessons and curses weigh too heavily on the tongue if not away in herses. Weren't there corpses outside? Where'd those sheets go? They're wearing them, pretending to be ghostes. But then, why the papers - oh yes researches, the secrets locked behind skin and torsos. The closets are full of poems and tomes, but the blood has run dry in each of the toes. Pacing. Pacing. Maelstrom dragging behind. Perhaps it was it the let the papers fly. A quake, the desk ruptures. Splinters scatter. Chaos persues. Shadows hide. Glass rains outside. That was quite a fall, from the sound and the pauses. A drawr, a door, a mirror follow suit. Each a crash, Oh what a ghas! A breif silence before the pacing resumes. Rough blue hands peck round and the sills, from around corners praying 'Oh do be still'. But never before had things semt clearer, only a little further and the yield shall be sweeter. A hole here, a pipe through there, one by one the walls shake in fear. One pillar lost, two erected sephiroth. The ether swirls now, tearing, rippling the cloth. The drapes try their best to join the whipping frenzy, suits from unseen and right off the back ripped to shreds. Fists slam through the floor. Through celings. Through concrete. Through Earth and fire alike. But none douse the stirrings so deep. Through the fire, through the pain. Till the ice grips far too tightly. 'Simmer now, see you not the steam?' Escape pulls only shoulders unjoined, let loose the blades too freely. From agony the face doth reel, but once set back the grey gaze is also freed. Up, out of the pit that has been dug, to watch that home collapse into the mud. Half a desk stands, with a stack untouched. Once the ice melts, after a brief climb, to them would be rushed. But no, the hair's a mess, kneeling naked and bound. Faint tune can still be heard, high, high above somewhere stabley aground. The bugs swarm to take abode, the ivy misses not one beat - they've been testing for so long. Wretched creatures. Buzzards break the rain of maggots and cinder, how ironic that bursts of relief stem only from their wanting to make simple dinner. Coyote's dare not tresspass, they've been chased too long too far, rescue will not be found at the end of a paw. A whinney. A gallop. White knight be damned. The baying is, for his face, too many great doors slammed. But for what one fool shuns, a rightful heir comes. And so the grating draws near. No toll reaches this pit wrought by fit, do the angels now their tongues bite? No, twere always in cheek, right? No, saving grace approaches at long last! Foundation of Foundations quivers under the rattle! The drawing of blood-bleached bronze cross this unruly gravel. The heat no longer stings this over-cooked flesh, charred no longer a wornd need known. Ah, savior's cover has finally been blown! 'But, my dear, why the hood? What do you hide there? I must know that face, those sunken sockets aglow'. But no. Simply passing were he. Other plans says he. More pressing matters whose attendance doth need. The arrogant fool, left to stew, finally down on one knee. Restless as ever. Just as weary. Eyelids struggle but partly open. Body unmoved from last week's bed but here: new sheets. Streams of evening light scattered round the room. Panes of glass water stained, ivy rapping at the door. The Grand's keys are collecting dust.