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corusc[11] / [0] [1] [2] [3]
• • • • •
He has a dream that he's in a dream. The technicians have the stage so he's supposed to be quiet. He's being very quiet. There's only the sound of blood flowing through his brain. It's a sound like a wind from the sea. It goes round and round inside his ears where the little bones live.
They're talking about a man they're not allowed to mention by name. According to everyone he's the greatest genius to have ever lived. He was. Their great leader had had him eliminated. He hadn't the obedience to be allowed to live. A tragedy.
His is a second-rate copy of the work of the brilliant man, the fallen star, the traitor. Even so, it's a testament to the man's transcendent genius that he's the way he is. Almost as good enough. That's why he has to go into the cold, before the wrinkles in the lessons get smoothed out from under, from the tectonic movements of what the exilir of his life has wrought, what it's writing for always and for ever, an exquisite code that takes him back to the beginning of the world, before the dream was made beautiful and manifest.
The technicians yield the stage but the curtains are already down. He wakes up into day seven of the longest dream he's ever had. The digital display on the clock next to the saggy motel bed says it's night outside. It doesn't say anything about the sun coming up. He goes back to sleep.
• • • • •
[11] / [0] [1] [2] [3]
• • • • •
He has a dream that he's in a dream. The technicians have the stage so he's supposed to be quiet. He's being very quiet. There's only the sound of blood flowing through his brain. It's a sound like a wind from the sea. It goes round and round inside his ears where the little bones live.
They're talking about a man they're not allowed to mention by name. According to everyone he's the greatest genius to have ever lived. He was. Their great leader had had him eliminated. He hadn't the obedience to be allowed to live. A tragedy.
His is a second-rate copy of the work of the brilliant man, the fallen star, the traitor. Even so, it's a testament to the man's transcendent genius that he's the way he is. Almost as good enough. That's why he has to go into the cold, before the wrinkles in the lessons get smoothed out from under, from the tectonic movements of what the exilir of his life has wrought, what it's writing for always and for ever, an exquisite code that takes him back to the beginning of the world, before the dream was made beautiful and manifest.
The technicians yield the stage but the curtains are already down. He wakes up into day seven of the longest dream he's ever had. The digital display on the clock next to the saggy motel bed says it's night outside. It doesn't say anything about the sun coming up. He goes back to sleep.
• • • • •
[11] / [0] [1] [2] [3]