Panaphobia - Opening
Sept 2, 2013 2:10:05 GMT
Post by FancyDante on Sept 2, 2013 2:10:05 GMT
Panophobia
Introduction
A gentle echo of a comforting beep, play a chorus all of its own. The crowd had long dispersed the room. Men draped in white lurked behind tinted glass. Charts spawned graphics; painting a sterile white across the walls. An elderly man lay in the center leaking tubes and wires. The steady beep sung along with the silence, birthing a melody of comatose.
His hands were stricken with a highway of blue veins pulsing with the dull light of a long forgotten street lamp in a neighborhood without residence. A long pipe now filled his lungs to fill them just to take away what they had forced in. A gentle hiss of wheels grounded into a soft whisper of the Winged Grace of Death. "Grace me with your kiss" whispered the shell. A soft giggle and tip of a finger no moral should be touched with, "No."
The cursed melody play among the living day in and day out. God passed by sometimes in the lights of the blinds, and at night demons danced along the edges of hope. Yet the melody play on, the course line picking up in a sinners requiem for a bribe never taken.
Faceless angels, without wings all draped in white would tend to the gears. Twisting and pulling, changing and cooling; then abruptly swivel on their pinned track back to the gate on which they entered. Godless tyrants floated across the floor up to the edges of meters and measures. Finding neither the changes nor the pressed creases in their white coats to be acceptable they slithered out with a snort.
His skin had begun to turn a sickly yellow. His lips thinned and curving back upon his teeth, as if his mouth were a wound that had begun to scab over. There were never any visitors to begin with, but now, this meat was beginning to spoil and would drive away the tenets that kept him bound to this existence. The edges had left their shyness and disregarded with their humor to dance for the shell that lay before them. Shadows came from ceiling to floor along the bed frame and out the door. The gear tenders tended quicker, and the tyrants snorted in the hall, for the shadows played games day, night and all.
The corpus lay as most corpus should, still and silent. For the nights turned into days too slowly for the mind left in this shell. Turning to itself for answers, he did the only thing left to him. He dreamt. He dreamt for years of years on decades of decades, circling the world as we all slept awake. His life was discarded by his own mind in his dreams. He never to live again but instead invented new worlds.
Worlds of towering machines over machines. Building themselves as they built the world. Grinding gears on top of clouds passing over passionate artists of the art of oil and metal. Worlds of water, birthing plants and winged serpents that delved into endless lakes suspended in the skies. It was his world he lived for all this time while his body remained on a plane far away.