Thursday, April 9, 2009


"Have you ever seen something so daunting it has to be fake, like there's no way it could be real, but is?"

"What like photoshop Mali?"

"Sure, if you want, but that's in rather simple terms and I'd like to think of it much more intensely than that. Something that you'd never think to exist, but mankind somehow brought it to be."

"Does this have a point love?"

"Well Gordon, I have story."

They were but players, in a book, a novel who's writer refrained from recognition but who's reader was visible if only one were to look hard enough. the tome they danced was of a journey, no,
the journey that takes a lifetime to complete and Peter was aware of this, so much so the knowledge sometimes causes nausea.

It was different for others, they would simply waltz and tango as if they had no form, uninhibited by the relentless passing of second, their constant visitor never receiving a passing glance.

He wanted to educate them, to inform them of their fate, but what good would that do? Futility set in and Peter bowed to his audience, a body that gazed at him with scrutiny, a sea of eyes discerning his every move and gesture as if he were the overseer, the reader of the novel.

At that moment a woman disappeared, as if her lot were drawn. The figures bowed and transitioned to the next partner and deftly moved, unaware of their own boundaries. Some audience members left, but still they went on until there was not an eye upon them. Only then could they rest and die.


It's not that they couldn't, but that they wouldn't. It was intrinsic to dance, no different than breathing. It was a window and they were the view, yet only Peter recognized the figure before them. That is what it meant to be a source of eternal entertainment, that is what it meant to be the dance macabre.

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