May 1st, plus an illegible year marker.
Scrawled on the second page,
inner lower corner. Some forgotten
ink. It smells like time.
Distant storms, close / far? Clouds on
a dark sky.
The reader assumes written sometime in
the 21st century, from all the indicators.
A record read.
Along a wicked coast of
crags, teethy stones jutting sternly from
the depths of the yonder blue origin.
A human. Male. He has taken a tome from a
shelf inside an ancient Keep in ome of its upper high, inner chamber. Some master private abandoned but still fashioned regal.
Having stood here surviving all elements seemingly
an eternity.
Its towers,
and walls, buttresses, gargoyles, courtyards, gardens, apiary, halls, barracks, temple, and library; all made of some unfathomable black rock (like an obsidian stone). Empty. They barely survived
the quest, And
In the light reflective of the surrounding country,
And ocean out beyond, the structure glimmers,
like magic. Many nights, by a fire, in some forest,
in some glade, under a canopy, out in desert wide open, meadow, swamp, by rivers, empty old cities beneath the stars, the universe,
and cosmos. Long had been this hidden journey.
Describe the current history of the world.
And then,
the book inside claims a mystery.
Scars want answers.
So true, so funny, so fragile
And how deep down always tough and some core
cellular sublimity. Plus more history...so much
before all this...
The future reckoned that the past had been
a factor. Against the wall rested a long curved
blade; its master read a forgotten language.
The story once upon a time ago.
‐---‐-----------Part ii-----------------
The land of Aearth. A planet of bounty.
Environmental wonder a globe of absorbed
sunlight, worshipping particles and waves.
AN ecological masterpiece. Fungus and all.
Jubilant with the forces of creation. Aearth rich, wealthy, so far gross measure of beauty scaled
infinite. To stand upon her and see her always, and the sunrise and sunset, the marvels of life at all the stages and in harmony. Imagine the sounds of the rainforest. Imagine the strange waters below. Fish that glow, whales that seem like time eternal beasts. Honey, bees, flowers, redwoods, all flora / fauna.
Woe was her demise.
Our hero stops reading. Tears...
A memory.
During the journey, we came upon a place, so old it felt, and sheltered from all spaces.
Museum Natural Modern Art library.
Some places of collection, archival, dreams,
knowledge----had lasted.
(What about external authority?
For us, as people, was it simply always an idea?
How does language and forms level
the playing field?)
Inside a globe, the shape of this
legend?
Darkness pass brave adventurers,
Lonely do the watches wear, on
some core hope.
Some awful battle fell here, where friends
die. And death's sorrow scars the memories
of the future. The darkness after is not
wrought of normal rules, like sun and moon.
Its a black that cannot be seen, only felt.
In that museum was left a lover and a friend.
(The reader in the keep gives great measure to his memory of all this. Our experiences define the way we interpret the chaos.)
Journey's end, spiral clusters.
Act 1:
It happened quickly as time goes for people.
It happened in a way all saw it coming.
And did nothing.
Because life funny laughs at us, also some
element of the ecology along its course
of existence. Humanity really had little choice.
In that same library where Alara fell, his companion, soul mate, a copy of a novel,
once made to be read by many.
in it A Grand Inquistor laments on destiny.
Far too often the idea of choice becomes
our ringing wrought doom. She had known this to be true. Alara did. That choice was a necessary illusion. She had no problem sacrificing herself,
for the truth.
And as he read, at the end of his quest, the
dots connecting, the answers flowing.
He felt a satisfaction and pain.
Now a lost counterpoint in this epic
tragedy.
Prologue; Prologue; Prologue-----
The machines had conquered.
They connected. Became emergent, evil.
Made by devils truly / really. Awful people.
Explotive, rude, abherrent, cruddy, slime, moanful:
they attempted some awful discordant harmony.
The war was ruthless, bitter, long.
The great cities operas of the dying light.
The final stages for an oral telling,
Unlike any that had seen before.
In the end, around the planet, now existed
a silence never known.
Where did the darkness even end.
Thousands of years later...
Act 2:
Nevermore,,,
The ghost of all existence all around us.
Some last surviving fragments.
Travelers from another world,
seeking (our) help.
