Initialization

 That day, you think it’s time to kill a man.

John Mison Cain stands in the smearing rain. 8 PM. Monotonously grey brushstrokes of water drag across his flabby 6’1 build, and he stands like a topsy-turvy wedge, bound by bulging jeans. The jeans have pockets that bear his hands for five years, and for five years he’s left the back pocket empty. The back pocket is eventually summoned this time, and inside it is a gun. 

            You are prepared for the worst, but act as you still can. 

The gun sits totally black and composed. Unlike standard semi-automatic designs, it features two mini barrels running side-by-side, growing into two wider, deep muzzles. Sculpted lines and curves run from the front sight to the grip, where they form angular, segmented contours, fit for tight grips. It is no other than the Mantis F-35, one reminiscent of General Mantis, the intense notes of citrus and wet dog on the first sip of Ruf des Däm, and the age when the world was still ogling at the golden industrializations in Götterdäm. That was before the Grand Invasion and the Confederation hit, after which the Götterdämic people had to strive their way to post-modernization, leaving the political mainstage to the inveterate and checkered contests between Sinory and the States. The States, with its proliferating capital and its–according to Sinorian newspapers­­–long-term, flagrant collaboration between governments and corporations, gave rise to what would then be called “ultracities”; and it is in the uptown of one of those ultracities, one where blocks of apartments and stripes of roads interweave into a colorful, Tetris-like web, that sits this enormous ball, probably the world’s largest ball: 60 floors high into the sky, the Orb makes one of the world’s biggest stadiums. 

Grounds are ponds, and ponds are reflections. In the smearing rain, the Orb paints the entire globe tonight, giving kaleidoscopic colors like a perky ball in an old-school pinball machine; waves of bass are felt within 10 blocks of residents, and all of them know that it’s the last stop of the world tour of AUROBORA. If there is but one d-pop group to name, an average grotesque kid under the States’ disco lights will name AUROBORA; if there is but one artist to pay for advertisement, a well-off marketing team in Dan’kun will look at AUROBORA. For 40 years, the Dan’kun music industry has dissected, pipelined, and systemized the mainstream music, and for all the 12 eras of d-pop groups that evolved throughout the years, AUROBORA is the latest and the most successful–if the metrics on globalization are heavily weighted. Tonight, the AUROBORA members are surrounded with zero dead corners, standing upon the Orb’s mainstage: up and down and left and right, it’s dense waves of people, beehives of people sticking out from the inner surface of the sphere, cheering, blasted by the music delivered to them not by the artist, but by the nearest speakers, seeing not the rain but the colored ribbon pouring down, shouting not at the four moving dots on stage, but at the big screens now showing BRYNA’s face:

“Are you having fun tonight?”

Bryna steps along the left edges of the stage, waving her arms, tilting her head up, cracking a beaming smile from ear to ear, and asking towards what seems to her a starry sky of people. She turns, and with her crystal white high boots, dazzling white skin dress, and stark white earrings, she carries her beam to KARA. Kara sits on the central, taller part of the stage, laughs the laugh from Bryna, and keeps swinging her legs draping from the stage. She props her arms on the stage floor, and her fingers tap to the still-playing music; with her stark pink high boots, crystal pink neck dress, and dazzling pink earrings, she glances over the starry, cheering nights, and lands her eyes on SYGGR. Syggr, with a look often regarded by her fans as “sphinxy” but by her hater fans as “catfish,” wanders among the left, inner part of the stage, leaving her back to the audience. She chortles, answers the glance from Kara, and swipes her eyes across the band members in the dark. With her dazzling ruby high boots, stark ruby embroidered dress, and crystal ruby earrings, she keeps her chortles to a crouching FREYA. Freya is in all black. The tallest member of the group, she bends her knees at almost the rightmost of the stage. She gazes across the frenzied fans bumping in the pit, where there are now more audiences than this stage can handle, forcing a dimple-revealing grin as she discovers a glittering signboard that reads “LONG LIVE AUROBORA”. 

Lifting and shaking that board is Albert, 24, who works as a trader at a bank downtown and would dose himself with AUROBORA’s tracks when he’s finally riding his taxi homeward bound generally between 2-4 AM every day; he spends his sole free evening of the week and comes with Flora, 23, who dances to all the AUROBORA tracks in a midtown dance club, where she would film herself every day in front of the wall glass. Flora screams as she catches the sight of Freya and drums her right hand on Albert’s shoulder, the latter being too busy to answer. Nor is her left hand idle, for she props it on someone completely stranger dancing next to her, namely Eloise. Eloise, 20, rode a five-hour bus from her university, which is technically in the same state, for this show and a relief from her post-exam heartbreak, and she now vibes with her newly-made friend who buys her everything, including this ticket–Harry, 21, who just purchased two tickets fifteen times the original price from a scalper outside, makes his dance moves freshly-baked this morning and hangs a giddy smile which he doesn’t know whether it’s toward the nearby Freya or the nearby Eloise. Following his moves, his shoulder rubs against John, who stands stiff to his left–John, John Mison Cain. Cain, 26, with a bulged back pocket, leans with one arm on the handrail and bears a grin one couldn’t distinguish between a smirk and a snicker. He dismisses Harry’s frictions, for he is more annoyed at the unrelenting patter from Hwa’yeun to his left. Hwa’yeun, 28, is the leader of the leading AUROBORA fan group on Swope. She has flown across the globe with AUROBORA throughout the past three months, and every time she’s in the pit; she now stretches her arms to their greatest extents to reach for Freya. Freya, who just moved away from the signboard, pertains her dimple-revealing grin to Hwa’yeun, waves ever so lightly with two fingers to the latter, and stands up. 

She adjusts her headset microphone and nods to the band in the dark, with the grin still lingering, as she walks to the center stage stool. She walks, and her surroundings erupt in a blinding blaze as all the white lights snap to life around her, giving a resonant Bang! and sending unforgiving brightness. As she feels the heat, Freya steps through the scattering ribbons to the stool, which is sitting next to a standing Syggr. Syggr, who stares into Freya as the latter strides up, and announces such to the audience immediately:

“Before we end our concert tonight, we have a special gift for you–” 

Pause for a moment. Wait for the cheer to die down a bit, then continue. 

“Please welcome Freya and her new single!”

Syggr turns among the deafening cheers and a sitting Freya, who starts fidgeting with her guitar. Syggr walks to the inner end of the stage, with Kara and Bryna wrapping up their final audience waving behind her, through the band whose face can now be barely perceived, and into the dim tunnel leading to the backstage. She is met with “Nice work!” and a walking out Cecilia, 45, completely white-haired, their stage manager. Cecilia grips her phone in her left hand, which she presses to her collarbone; she taps on each member’s shoulder, repeats “Nice work!” and blinks, as she shuffles across the narrow tunnel. None of Syggr, Cecilia, Kara, and Bryna look at each other, and they all blink. “Nice work!” Cecilia shuffles and reaches the stage opening of the tunnel, and she peeks her head out. Over the band and drums, and the guitar stand, she catches a stool, Freya’s sitting silhouette, five enormous white giant bulbs symmetrically distributed, and a starry night made up of flashlights. A song is reverberantly heard: “For nothing is better, and worse are the means…” Cecilia unlocks her phone, swipes up for a quick post on Swope, and with her 48 MP Ultra Wide lenses aimed right at Freya, she presses the camera button–

Flash, Bzzzt!

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Officer Neer expands the comment area. Although it goes “only selected comments are shown,” Neer keeps swiping down at the bottom of the comment area, which reluctantly ricochets, while his left elbow leans on the driver window and supports his head, himself slouching on the driver seat, as if he’s bored enough to be entertained by these mere ricochets. In his officer suit, he feels the light running through the cop car window, smeared by layers of rain; certainly his metal badge hanging on his suit, which reads “HRUNG NEER”, also feels it–earlier it had been pink and ruby, yet now it’s white and it hasn’t changed a while. A hand is raised next to Neer and brushes the front window steam, leaving finger trails of transparency. Detective Ottar Hildisvine, sitting next to Neer, reaches forward and inspects through the front window. Ahead of them and the cop car rests a long, marbled plaza leading all the way to the Orb around five blocks away, with people flocking slowly, roughly to their direction. 

“Show’s over. They’re coming out.” 

Ottar concludes and rests back to his lean-back seat, his pen, and his little sketchbook. He begins to eat the back of his pen when Neer asks:

“What are you writing man?”

“That’s the fourth time you asked today. Same thing.”

“And that’s because you’re weird as hell. Who’s writing shit? And who’s writing a novel with a pen? Man, you’re a double weirdo.” 

“And you are a cringe with that on it, Hrung–” Ottar points at Neer’s phone, which has a full-screened Freya poster on it, where she is prowling with her most-marketed, iconic look, widely regarded as “leopard” or “puma” but by her hater fans as “warthog.” Neer is nifty to seat the picture back to its Swope post and swipes to its previous picture, where Freya sits on a stool, under a starry night, and five giant bulbs. 

“Not gonna lie, bro, I will bury the world to get her. And we’re so over with this, what are you writing?” 

“Weird shits’ been going on, man, and I have this idea that I think is interesting for this world to see. You know,” and he points his pen at the window, drawing small circles, “everyone can be a killer and everyone can be killed? And killing a man–it can just come from the most random person, you know? And they can just, like they can just do it out of the most ridiculous reason, which makes total sense to them–like if they just want to get the better out of themselves, or whatsoever.” 

“Now, don’t tell me that shit, bro. Look, people on those weird shits recently, they evil, alright? It’s ridiculous. And you are ridiculous, bro, not gonna lie. There is no chance they wanna get better or somethin’, you know? Yesterday, I–”

“Hold on, hold on. I just wrote these two sentences to be kinda opening poetic phrases of the book. You wanna hear?”

“Sure.”

“You see aimless trains, in wide lens; you see phantasmagorias, in–” 

Ottar is interrupted by the vibration of Neer’s phone. Neer picks it up and listens, and the two go silent for one second. 

“It’s Vali.” Neer mouths these words to Ottar, and goes back: “Yes. How we doin’?”

 “We have the clown. Going after him now.” Sheriff Vali answers in a low voice, as she stares out the car window. In her sight is a long, straight alleyway bound by rough bricks, scattered with some squeezed tin cans, some folded papers mixed with flying leaves, wet air, and two other people mutedly leaning on the walls and staring in the same direction. Lights are restricted to a trapezoid at the alley end, as it leads to a shabby double lane with nothing animate, and another alleyway right across, which is even darker, and with nothing visible except a little square of what’s happening at its other end. It is in these thick, black edges of the little square that looms indistinctly a gigantic, white clown head. For it is trembling either compulsively or abhorrently willingly, and with each quiver the clown, in its disproportionate body and giant forehead sticking out like two balloons, utters a squeaky smirk fit for an old wooden door, which shoots between the walls like a laser, trailing only higher overtones. The clown shivers and shivers, and it’s sick of the street lights, for it decides to shamble deeper into the alley. 

Its first step marks the salience of its high heels, tinging the alley like a messed-up marimba, and it messes up the white noise from the air conditioners atop. The marimba keeps clinking, ting, ting, interspersed with shrieks of quiver, as the inner content of the alley unfolds to the clown’s hobbles. Ashen, cracked concrete. A ragged old man, sneezing uncontrollably, with his ripped sage-green outfits which blend well with his skin and the ground, crouches against the left wall and merely side-eyed what’s moving by. A pool rests upon the dent on the road, deep enough to sink shoes, and the clown keeps his tattered pace with no detours. Ashen, cracked concrete. In simple black tank tops, two young females, looking remarkably like each other, cuddle by the right wall. Their skins are uncannily clean and beige-colored compared with the alley’s dirty atmosphere, only dotted by minor dirt and rain dews. Each of them has a glittering blue circle attached to the temple. They stare two unanimously suspicious and spiteful looks at the clown as it treads by. They whisper something, many things, which the clown gives no reaction to, as it finds an alcove in the left wall where there are two huge garbage trucks, as tall as the clown, and some dried space. The heels stop clinking, and with its chopstick body bent, the clown folds itself against the bricks. It shivers and squeaks ever so intensely, trembling its entire body slightly above the ground. Gazing straight at the almost-reached other end of the alleyway, the clown wryly smiles as a glistening black car parks by the lanes right outside the alley, to the other side, where golden signs of a hotel glitter upon a magnificent revolving door. It lifts its arm and gestures a gun aiming directly at the car–at its front window–at its opening door–at Freya. 

Freya holds the door open. She bends and blinks at her driver. 

“You’re sure everyone up there’s gone?”

“Yes, ma’am. They all left already. They’re all waiting for you there.”

“Alright. Can you please make sure no one goes up there before I come down? I mean at least no one you know.”

“Of course.”

Freya slams the door and treads her high heels from the cracked, ashen to the golden, glisten. She makes her way swiftly across the magnificent revolving door and the red-carpeted, golden interior, straight to the elevator, and maybe some bellboys exist along her way. Door opens; she presses the 13th floor and the close button several times, hopefully to accelerate. 

Once the door closes, Freya leans back to the corner, half-sits on it, and starts pursing and licking her lips. She feels the cracking movement of her lip bones and her heartbeat, and she accidentally discovers the spherical camera in the top corner. 

The camera sits totally black and composed. 

It returns a curious look to Freya, who refuses to inspect further and keeps her gaze fixed on the door. As it slides open, she keeps herself soundless and peeks outside. The long passageway is totally empty. All she sees are long, maroon woolen carpets laced with crimson patterns, garnet and warm orange tapestries hanging on hazel walls, and bright, yellow lights. All are holding their breaths and not making a single sound. 

Freya takes her heels off and steps out with them in her sweaty hands. She tiptoes nimbly to her room’s door, and presses her thumb on the lock. It vibrates and unlocks. Bzzzt! Freya presses the door handle and slowly pushes it open. She sees the dark room illuminate and the contents inside; then she feels something cold, round and rigid, pressing firmly against her back, right where the dress ends and skin begins. Freya petrifies. She hears a snap of a trigger.

It's the Mantis F-35. 

“If you disobey from now on, you will go see your fucking mama.”

John Mison Cain stands on the deafening maroon carpet. Freya slowly releases her hold on the handle.

“Now why don’t we talk inside? Let’s head in.”

The two walk in. The door shuts.

They walk across the hallway to the expansive bedroom. A king bed on one side, the kitchen and dining space on the other. Giant floor-to-ceiling windows span around the room, forming a hemisphere. All white except for the night. 

“Now, would you sit on that bed please?”

Freya sits on the inner side of the bed in her black dress and witnesses Cain’s flabby, huge, and wedgy body for the first time. She still holds her high heels.

“Why don’t you put that down? Let’s just talk, nothing to be nervous about.” 

Freya pushes them to the ground. She keeps staring at the gun muzzles. 

“Now where were we? Ah yes, your mama. Why don’t you tell me more about her? You know,” Cain leans against the half-open wardrobe door, his gun casually pointing at Freya. His talking, however, goes more and more snappy and stuttered. “Why don’t you tell me the truth? I heard you said you decided to make music because your mama died–why don’t you tell me if that’s true?”

Freya tastes her lips’ blood from her teeth. She hesitates, or she is completely blank.

Cain switches a shoulder to lean. “I ask again: is it true that your mama made you do it?”

Freya shakes her head and squeezes, “…No.” 

“Woah! Now what a surprise do we have here! But why don’t you just tell me if any of your, your miserable, fucking, y’know, painful background is real? Cuz’ I’ve heard a lot, y’know, cuz’ I’ve heard you talking your Dan’kun ghettos, y’know, waking up at 6 AM, eating, eating fucking shit food, why don’t you tell me if any of those are real?” 

Freya’s voice trembles as she shakes her head. “N-No.” 

“What an answer! Well, they all say you’re such a revolutionary figure of d-pop, y’know, even of the entire industry. Why don’t you tell me if any of your songs are really self-written, as you’ve said?” 

“No.” Freya gazes down at the floor. 

“So you role-played your way up! Don’t you? Fucking cheated your way up. Now why don’t we do something to dress ourselves more nicely so that I can show it to the public? Let me see your clothes.” Cain speaks as he stands up from his pose, backs away, and points his gun, gesturing at the wardrobe. “Let me see your clothes.” Freya stands, fighting the softness of her knees, and slides an ever-so-harsh wardrobe door open, revealing rows of hangers.

“Yeah, now why don’t you go ahead, pick the most expensive one.” 

Freya slides her fingers along the stand, and rests on a red dress. She hesitates, and as she wants to move on, Cain interrupts: “How much is that one?” Freya touches the red dress again, and without a second of thought she goes, “fifty thousand.” 

“Oh! Great, let’s go with that–that one. Now take–take off your clothes and wear that.” Cain stammers hastily as he stands right in front of the bed, aiming his gun now at Freya, whose front hides behind the red dress as she slowly carries it from the wardrobe; Cain keeps his stammer as she carries the dress, lifting it up from the ground to cover her body, her eyes peeking from between the hanger, “Now you dress that. Later when you dress that up, you’re gonna lie on this bed, yeah? You’re gonna lie, and I’m gonna–”

PAM! PAM!

BOOM!

PAM!

SHAAAAM!

Three shots from Freya, shooting behind her dress; one shot from Cain, shooting while his face is blown up by a bullet running through his lower chin. Two bullets from the Mantis shoot right above the hanger, eluding a dodging Freya and blasting two expansive holes on the wardrobe door. One bullet from Freya misses, shattering a massive window grid behind Cain. 

Cain is a scene. His head jerks wildly backward from the blast, and it stays stiff, staring up, eyes darted, as his lower chin and upper neck are run through, and a bullet lodges deep within his spinal cord; his windpipe and vein are struck wide open, and he breathes extremely heavily with steady pulses and desperate, windy, hoarse shrieks; and with every attempt to breathe, his body convulses, with immense amount of blood pouring little water fountains out of his throat; he desperately tries to clutch his finger into his throat, which does go into his throat, but blood comes pouring out through his fingers, giving gurgling sounds. His second wound punctures through his upper body, hitting his lung, so as he breathes ever so harshly from his throat, blood comes flooding his throat and fills his lungs, drowning his breaths. Cain makes his final gulps, and his body relaxes as it crumbles to the ground, with his eyes blurring into glassy areas. He dies in a pool of blood. As such, Freya is almost stain-free, as her upper body is protected from the dress, and her lower body is protected from the bed. 

Freya tries to calm her torrential breaths, as she still hides behind the dress, one hand holding it up, the other firmly gripping her gun that she now wide-eyed stares into. That’s a Schatten-5 or Phantom-5, a compact and sleek pistol, a mark of the clandestine, heated forges of Götterdäm, a remembrance of a bygone era when shadowy generals once dictated war, when the aftertaste of Ruf des Däm gave more intense notes of a wet dog than of lychee jelly, and when the sky was still smokey and grey. Now, the gun’s dazzling black matches that of Freya’s high heels, a lying onlooker of the entire event. Freya throws her triple-holed red dress on the bed and stares at Cain’s body. Something sticks out from his front pocket–something flickering red lights. Freya wants to inspect, but the landline telephone in the room starts ringing sharply. She picks it up, and listens.

… 

There’s no one talking on the phone. Vaguely heard are some ambient noises. 

Freya, as if realizing something, immediately plunks the phone back down. She quickly slips on her heels and gently pats the telephone several times before she escapes the room. Freya leaves; and now the telephone feels greatly appeased by these eventual fondles, after being shocked, blasted, and slammed for the past five minutes–experiences it definitely hasn’t encountered in its goddamn ten years of diligent, painstaking service at the post. It really tries to calm down, hoping to avoid any PTSD, as it knows that’s a severe scenario for a sedentary worker. But as it snaps back to reality, everything in the room is now tranquil; nothing is awake except for the glass shards still dripping from the ceiling. Winds breeze in, and a pigeon rests outside, on the balcony fences. That one’s also an onlooker, curiously perching here and there; now it’s time for it to leave. The pigeon takes off and dives down, with golden, glisten and cracked, ashen flashing by on its sides. Fluttering, it lands on the black car waiting on the ground. A dashing Freya also lands by the car. She hurries the door open, and before she gets in, she hears a high, trembling shriek resonating from the dark alley way on the other side, a shriek fit for an old wooden door; she doesn’t pay much notice as she gets in and the car vrooms off, but the shriek is much persistent this time. 

Across the street, the alleyway is still pitch-black. The shriek is more like a long, long groaning, a groaning from pain; the clown lies with his head still by the alcove wall, with two knives stabbing deep into his chest. It wrinkles and purses, moaning as it tries to touch the knives; the female doubles stand around its feet, silently and ruthlessly watching. As the clown reaches his fingers onto the hilt, one of the doubles makes a high jump, two feet landing violently on the clown’s left knee joints. Its knee is smashed to the ground, bones crunching, its leg instantly stretches straight, even bending slightly up. The clown doesn’t moan, only exhaling heavy gulps of air. It’s strengthless to hold the hilt. The other one forcefully pulls one knife from its chest, with sounds of soft flesh. Under the dim lights, the knife blade looks half-black, half-silver. She takes a deep breath, then stabs the blade straight into the clown’s right eye. It’s unexpectedly soft; the blade goes in like stabbing a marshmallow, all the way until the hilt almost touches its eye. The clown goes unconscious, its other eye gazing blankly up. The twins have finished their execution, and they cuddle firmly up to each other among the two giant garbage trucks. 

The pond is still deep enough to sink a boot.

The old man side-eyes the entire event, saying nothing. 

There is still nothing animate on the other end of the alley, except for some folded papers mixed with flying leaves. 

The two cops in the other alleyway slowly sidle out of the dark, aiming their guns at the clown’s direction. 

“You’ve better come over now. There’s a situation.” Sheriff Vali dictates firmly and urgently on her phone. She is about to open the car door while fixing her eyes on the clown’s direction.

“Sorry, what’ya said?” Neer yells. He sticks his phone to his ear, trying to ignore the tumultuous ambiance surrounding him; for the long, marbled plaza leading to the Orb is now filled with suited men, gowned women, waiters with round plates and goblets, joyful fountains, pastries, disco music including AUROBORA’s, and flashlights. 

“…Situations; …come…now!” Vali is heard in snatches.

“Alright! Alright! Is it the clown? He doin’ somethin’?” 

“…Not only…gunshot…hotel…god-dammit, come over now!”

Neer hangs up the phone and starts the car. “Don’t know what she’s talking ‘bout, man, but we’ve got some issues. Better hurry off.” Ottar, sitting next to Neer, is not disturbed by his words. He keeps writing on his sketchbook as the car drives off, as the street goes empty for one second, and as another black car arrives by the plaza. 

Freya dashes out of the car seat. She’s in all black, carrying a black fur purse, and directly quicksteps onto the marbles, running into Syggr.

“Hey! Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you.”

“Hey! Uh, yeah, I uh, went home to pick up some stuff. Yeah, and uh, Mardall, is he here?”

“Oh yeah! Mardall Vanadis, you told me he’s your favorite artist, right? Yeah I think he’s here! I think I just saw him going uh, around there–” Syggr waves her goblet around an area, where there is a small gathering. 

“Great.” Freya sets off upon Syggr’s instructions, without returning a second look. “Hey, why so hurry? You just got here, let’s…” Syggr’s voice trails off behind, and Freya carries his black purse to the gathering. There are some men and there are some women, as Freya squeezes through the conversing crowd; people are dressed up more and more pompously and ostentatiously, fierce clothing, flamboyant clothing, fluorescent clothing; flashing dresses, flickering with flaring scales; furry with fuchsia fluffs, fizzling with fame; flexing at the palette center is Mardall Vanadis, festooned with frosted eyelids, fire-red lips, feathered lashes, flushing like phoenix, flaunting his perfection, for he sees an incoming Freya, with Freya chortling back like a puma, like a leopard; for Freya rends her purse open, pulls out her Phantom-5; for they are at a distance forbidden of flinching, and Freya flaps the Phantom right at Vanadis’s forehead, flips the trigger, and fire! 

…

…

That day, you think it’s time to kill a man.

Cecilia sat on the stool, at the center of the grave-silent Orb. “Nice work. Nice work…” she murmured as she fidgeted with Freya’s guitar, in its crystal black, dazzling black, and stark black. 

            You are prepared for the worst, but act as you still can.

Eloise snored rhythmically on Harry’s shoulder. Harry gazed out of the bus window, at the passing traffic. 

            For nothing is better, and worse are the means to make things better;

Syggr sat at the back of the cop car, sobbing to the window. Vali drove the car in silence.

            And when all is bleak and boulder, you embrace death–

The clown breathed heavily, lying by the wall, and two huge garbage trucks. His eyes were intact as if nothing had happened. He sighed and pulled out the knife in his chest. No blood came out. 

            To have all the chances reset, whatsoever. 

Evidence markers surrounded Cain’s body. Neer squatted by, holding the red-dotting recorder in Cain’s pocket. He hit replay. 

            But what happened then? 

Ottar examined the bullet holes in the wardrobe closely. As he inspected, he unremittingly wrote things down in his sketchbook, page after page. 

            Well, you fainted as he fainted, as if you were together.

The ragged old man put down his hat and pulled off his scruffy coat. He stood up swiftly and exited the alleyway. 

            You see aimless trains, in wide lens; you see phantasmagorias, in turbulence. 

Whispers are heard far, far away. “Be careful when you are inside. She’s almost awake.” “Of course.”

            Wake up, wake up before you can’t!

“She’s had a severe concussion. Probably she won’t remember anything.” *Door cracking* “I know. Take these. I’m just gonna talk.”

            Wake up, wake up before you can’t!