Future

Martin Garrix & B. Rexha Vs Coldplay Vs Prodigy - In The Name Of Sky Voodoo (Djs From Mars Bootleg)

Masks were comfortable.  Perhaps that's why he refused to wear them.  The burn, the cutting bite into the skin.  It was supposed to become comfortable.  The wear against the skin was supposed to bring the comfort allowing one to slip into the deadening sedation of the masses.  All one had to do was to be willing to hide behind the charade.  It would only cost them their soul.  All in exchange for a measly device that promised to offer protection against the reality, then he would have none of it.

Such is the artist.

He already knew he would face rejection.  He would have to stand as he saw his truths turned into tools for fools.  The congregated mass with touches gangrenous.  So it would be.  This modeled mass he desired to save.  He didn't know why.  They would only reject.  His fight wasn't theirs.  Was it he that didn't understand or was it they.  Alliances forged proved futile.

He would continue to face the storms.  Perhaps it was all he ever new.  A man who longed for peace was born into a battle.  Unending. Perpetual.  Casualty count high.  Each strike, each moment of pain only emboldened.  Through a mouth bloodied and marked all he would say through a sure smile is:  "Is that all you got?"

He had learned.  The monster one is most afraid of facing due to some fragile fear, once confronted turned out to be a figure as miserable as it was pathetic.  Through the tears, through the blood, despite the scars of the fire he would only laugh.  The past was a land and language of lies.  Besides... it was gone.  The only thing that lay ahead was a future.

Untamed, unclaimed, unknown.

A future he would meet smiling.      

The moon is beautiful

The Breeders: Cannonball

The moon is beautiful.

The pause.  The lean.  The laugh.

"The moon is beautiful, you know."  It caught him by surprise, but the moon embodied her.  The shine in her hair,  The glow poured from her skin.  She moved, hips pressing from side to side.  Her press close.  Before in a moment it moved away.  The energy surrounding both pulled as sparks shot across the atmosphere static.  Laden and longing for the touch.  The burning caress.  But in the dance the passions could play.

Bodies surrounded in the crowd but focused only on the other.  Passion burned.  Desire fumed.  The inferno grew high as bodies grew close.  The touch.  The trace.  Lids weighed heavy.  Drawn by points of a hidden undertow.  Bodies grew close, separated only by the smallest of distances.  In that unbearable sliver, sparks leapt from his skin.  His gravity would pull her to him.  With each moment it only became stronger.  

Her laugh in a moment broke above the music.  The moment of clarity amidst the chaos.  Her hair drifted across face.  The cover.  The reveal.  The passion play as she moved.  Her press ever closer as they began the ballet towards the shadows.  A solace from the madness, so that in the asylum, the momentary lapses of reason could be born.

The grace.  The sanctum.  Was reached.  His lips burned upon contact.  She pressed.  She had to feel.  She had to be felt.  She had to consume and be consumed.  Each press, each move, only fanned the flames higher.      
 

The phone call

Adele / Chris Isaak / Felix / Madonna : GAMEFALL - Robin Skouteris Vs. Consoul Trainin

The phone call came suddenly.  It surprised him.  He looked at the area code.  It was hers.  A call from the city square of some square city.  Her number he had deleted but the area code... this he had remembered.  How many times he had longed to hear, to receive, anything... anything.  It was in the moments.  The after.  Belching orders in response to his hand held out in friendship.  All was done so that he would hopefully not hear her collapsing house of cards.

For one so fearful, she seemed so brave.  It was all a part of her disguise.  You so boldly attack against the audacity of truth that the others walk back.  Either that, or she will make you feel as if you are crazy.  It's called gas lighting.  A technique so powerful, that she has only lost one business doing this.  But it was comfortable.  It made her feel powerful.  Even if it made her walk out in her robe and pyjamas in the middle of the street at 11 o' clock in the afternoon.  She had to feel the victor, even if she stood in the valley of defeat, at least she could feel the victor.

Anyway, it was her phone number.  She had many numbers.  She had many names.  She believed herself so clever.  When he answered, silence greeted him.  What could she say?  He was the one who was the writer.  It was his jobs to take the tendrils and weave them into a tapestry of truth even if the threads were all wrong.

In the silence he thought of how many times he had shone his light to save her from the darkness.  In her perpetual slack hipped slithering retreat he noted that her darkness was always there to greet his light.  Light that could never be consumed.  True, it was stunted.  True, it was never allowed to illuminate.  But his light could never be extinguished.  Her thought he could work to minimize, but the desire would always burn.  A dangerous undertow that would beckon, it would delight, it would fill the mind, but as long as she remained hidden, it would remain stunted.

But her silence persisted.  It was her only bulwark.  She could safely hide in the shadows.  She would atrophy.  She would remain the wounded animal.  But she would live.  Her rule over a half light kingdom would remain.

He waited.

A minute passed.

She only had to say "hello."

But she didn't.

With a click, the signal died.

Fear had won, at least for the day.