Book I — The Rosalixion: Foreplay

EDITION VICTORIAE

The Rosalixion was first released around midsummer 2oo9, Prismian time

Author’s note: The name Spiros is pronounced spee-ros

STROPHARIA CUBENSIS (Psilocybe cubensis)

Also knows as Strawberry trumpet PICKED ON TERENCE MCKENNA'S BIRTHDAY

Thank you S. C.

Love forever

I T ' S A B O U T

T I M E W E I N F E C T I T

T H E N

Let your dreams run free

Hold on to the thread, honey

What is possible? What do you want?

Foreplay

REAM, mixing with reality. Welcome home. Love. A white dove flies by and snaps a lock of hair from Sissy Cogan’s shadow. She looks at the boy in front of her; blond young Spiros with shining blue eyes, and says: D

―And the waking world said, pointing at the corner: The bomb is here. And the other world said: Paradisical machine with a time fuse. And bloom!

She brings forth a red rose and laughs, casting her head toward the sky;

―What we said! She changes her tone of voice; ―No, no. Bird’s feet. I was at a funeral. ―Who are you? Spiros asks and marvels at Sissy’s beauty. ―I am me, says Sissy. The darkest lady on the taste on your tongue.

She laughs. With tempting secrecy in her eyes she dangles the rose crown under her nose and smells it.

―I am this rose, she says. They are me and I am them. She whispers: ―We have fused in alliance. ―Are you a witch? Spiros asks and smiles. Tell me more! Sissy lifts the folds of her white dress and steps up close to the teen. Whispers in his ear:

―Become the Other. She hands him the rose; ―The world is yours. She hands Spiros a cream colored envelope partly yellowed by age and then disappears into the narrow alleys of Old Town. Strange music is heard across Fountain Square where Spiros stands, and the voices of singing nymphs are heard within the tinkling water of The Fountain of the Lovers. Spiros opens the envelope and finds a small strawberry red slip of paper that reads: It’s about time we infect it then.

Sissy looks into a mirror at Clocksmith Alley and says quietly: ―Is it written in liquid violet? Is it written above the name by which they call me? You know I'm no stranger in your dreams.

Eyeglance is exchanged where she stands. She walks in to a jeweler and places a ring with a large diamond on the second most ulnar finger of her left hand. Looking the jeweler in the eyes she licks the palmside of her right long slink ring finger from root to top and teases him with her lips.

―The rosy intersection has begun, she says. Goodbye. The jeweller nods one nod in recognition. Sissy leaves through the door.

Spiros wakes up in revelation and looks to the alley Sissy disappeared into.

―It’s real! he shouts in awe, bursting into laughter. I’m alive. It’s real! I’m here!

Years pass. Spiros, now twentythree years old, is engulfed in the quiet fire lit darkness of a forest outside Old Town, sitting on a bed in an old neatly and tastefully furnished adobe ruin with half a roof and only two and a half walls (he enjoyed this place as the inside of the house merged with the great outdoors), puffing dried plant material in a pipe of glass indigo, wrapped in a blood red blanket, looking at the tongues of the fire flames, writing Tongue of the window lit with his finger in the air, smiling, loving, exalted, calm, alive. In the centre of the room a large Mimosa tree is rooted, and it has broken through the roof. Spiros looks into the fire and thinks of the woman he met a few years ago in Old Town, and says to her image:

―I hear your steps down the starway. Down the long winding storyway.

Sissy Cogan looks into a flaming candle at Clocksmith Alley and says with her sharp voice:

―Are you ready for the left hand diamond ring? Spiros takes his diary and runs down to an internet café nearby. He logs on to the ruling running quantum di-hybridal spacial encompassing chat room (The Deoxyribonucleic Hyperdimension) and begins to type cryptic messages, inspired, uncontrollably. Masses of water vapour, clouds, come in toward the mountain he is on, from three directions, and whitepurple flashes of lightning light up the immediate area.

A woman turns toward Spiros and looks at him with frightened eyes.

―That look you just gave me, she says. It came from somewhere else…

She steps out into the rain. Spiros writes on the chat:

You’re scaring me You’re scaring me to death I feel a weakness coming on

Sissy Cogan sees Spiros’ words on the chat. ―Ohoh, she says. Someone call the air-pirates. Magus and Dead McJones turn up on the chat and ask Spiros who he is, to which Spiros responds:

―I am Spiros. ―Ban him, Magus says to Dead McJones who knows exactly what he means.

Spiros continues to rave on the chat: ―Serverside implement membership protected area consists title headlien postbody individual and publisheda optionally subjects pingback entryedit discussion? I’m 96 percent dead now.

Kissmet Stasis, another chatter, forwards her message on the chat under Spiros’ line:

―See, I’m not alone. We are coming from elsewhere. Bzzz! Bzzzzzzzz! Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

―Tell them we don’t sting, says Sissy Cogan. Nykkel Humphry, friend of Magus and Dead McJones and also member of The Subnatural Rescue Team, enters the chat and says:

―A crack in the teapot opens. A door to the land of the dead. ―The first of the eight winner lines: I shall live forever or die trying, says Dead McJones.

McJones executes a system search and says: ―These programs are prewritten frameworks, own a scratch- skills against powerful text.

Another chatter comes by and says:

SPEAK UP! IT IS POSSIBLE TO MOVE THE RECORD OUT OF

THE RECORDING TIME. SPEAK THE FUCK UP.

Spiros puts a cigarette in his mouth. A small slip of paper moves in an artificial-looking manner as if in a false brush of air on the desk he sits by. He feels lightness of his body and a quickly coming euphoria.

Spiros, in disbelief: ―No way… Happily: ―You fucking bastards… Gasps are heard on Blackman Street in Old Town, close to the river. A painting depicting a starry nebulous cosmos, a hero in red and white and gold space suit, white doves in flight, a dark diving or floating sleeping or not alive or dead humanoid figure, a partly eclipsed sun and one large bone, appears. Spiros walks in mild wind down one of the Longstreets, dozens of eyes on him. Lit candle a room shines up. He glances into the flame.

―Daddy is back from the grave, honey, he says with deep voice and smiles big.

Sissy calls the Supervisor and says: ―I made him 15 minutes. The Supervisor says nothing but takes note of the detail. Sissy stands by a table in a garden by the rosebushes. A cream white linen bed sheet is carried airy around her waist. She glances at the book on the table, then pours herself a glass of Spice, Our special redpurple wine, from the crystal decanter into a silver chalice, and picks up a telephone and makes a call to The Spacebrothers:

―Kill him, she says calmly. The Spacebrothers say nothing but take note on the detail. Rain begins to fall. Spiros walks out onto the pastures. Buzzing electricity fills the air. Electric sounds of thunder tumble space. He runs down a silverstone stairway out onto a cliff. Revelations open. He sinks down on one knee, feeling as if he just woke up from a thousand years of sleep.

―I’ve been here before, he says and slides his hand across wet Earth. I’ve been here before...

He begins to cry and kisses the grass and makes an oath to protect the planet.

He rises from his kneeling position. Goes to his apartment on Levingbye Road 216. Decides to go to back to India. Packs his bags and leaves. He loses his passport on his way to the railway station. Loses the button of his zipperless pants. Looses his soul somewhere. Looses his mind. He decides to get ruthlessly drunk on nearest bar. Drinks wine and whiskey at his local pub and looses the poem with the only words he ever knew into a fireplace. Stumbles home and falls asleep on the carpet.

A woman appears before him in a dream. She has long rich dark hair, long all the way down to her waist. By rosebushes they stand, bright asterisms sparkling around them. A faint smell of wet leaves and mud rushes them by.

―You, whose face is the dawn of this garden, I have walked barefoot from the beginning of time to come to you. I come without clothes.

The woman touches a red rose. Drops of water run on to her fingers and she wets Spiros’ lips with the tips of her fingers. She looks him in the eyes.

―This is the water of all, she says. They kiss lips lips in a cold kiss. The rose she touched falls to the ground. The woman draws Spiros closer so he can feel her breasts and she says with sharp voice:

―The roses, all bloody and wild. If I show you the roses will you come with me?

Spiros wakes up on the floor of his apartment. Like in a dream he returns to his local bar to get ruthlessly drunk once again. When he arrives a woman stands by the bar, and as Spiros sits down on one of the barstools she turns toward him.

―Hello pirate, she says. Remember me? Spiros, barefoot, in too small dark blue zipperless pants held up with cheap silk wound round his waist, open white-collar shirt and green-shimmering scarf, a small red rose behind one ear and a pencil behind the other, looks back at her with tired blue eyes.

―A bottle of apple wine please, Spiros says first to the bartender and then turns toward the woman. No, I don’t remember you.

―We met yesterday, says the woman. You said you have missed me.

―O, says Spiros. I was very drunk. I don’t remember. But yes, I miss you.

The woman smiles, then walks away. Spiros peeks at her soft apple bum as she walks away, then pours apple wine into a wineglass.

An image flashes before his eyes, of a woman wrapped in white, kissing his chest and down his belly, looking up at him with big green eyes. The shadow of a female form moves behind him.

From the stereo speakers a message comes to him:

We know who you are

All messages I am here to receive, Spiros thinks. Dark signals from elsewhere. He glances at the messages carved into the bar.

Looking at the barman he says with sadness in his voice: ―How can a likelihood squeeze the scratched past? The barman smiles, familiar with Spiros’ frequent word play– Spiros loves playing with words, bending them and twisting them. The barman thinks for a while, wiping a beer glass with his kitchen towel, then speaks:

―Whatever supreme chest discriminates? Is that your answer? Answer of yesterday’s question.

Spiros raises wineglass to his mouth, sleepily, tired. ―I can’t see the connection, he says and sips some wine. So. Can a mistake drain the spent pathway?

―Never, says the barman. Again, the supreme chest. What has happened, brother? I’ve heard many people’s stories being a bartender. Tell me.

Spiros displays hesitancy. Speaks. ―I have broken vows, Spiros says. I have lost the rose I was given. I have failed.

The barman peeks around the bar to make sure his boss is not around. No sign of him. He reaches for a wine bottle up on a shelf and sets forth to pour a glass for Spiros.

―This is the most expensive wine we have, the barman says while he pours. It’s not even on the list. It’s a secret between the two of us, okay? I have personally brought it in from outcountry. It’s on me.

Spiros’ eyes shine up as the rotten stink of the wine reaches his nose.

―Old century wine, Spiros says and smiles. O my God… He takes a minute taste, carefully. ―You just summoned the sexy scary one, Spiros continues. My dark lover. The one in green lush. She with the warm kiss. My saviour.

―I’m glad I can help a fellow poet, says the barman and blinks with his left eye. Let yourself be seduced. She’ll take you to her dark bed. She wants you.

―I see her, Spiros says. A green and gold-glimmering mask, a bird mask, hides her face. She has flowers around her waist, white. She is barefoot, in a forest. The woman of the wine.

―I see it, says the barman. There is blood on her fingers. ―Why so? Spiros asks. ―Because she just killed you. The words carved into the bar volunteer winged messages to Spiros’ eyes. A dark murky form orbits the context. One message sticks out amongst the rest:

Insanity test; She flies around everywhere.

―She just killed you, continues the bartender, and with bloody fingers she touches your face, looks at you. She loves you so much she had to kill you. She wants you so much she had to kill you. For you to come to where she is. It has been completed, the… the…

―The union? says Spiros. Of the Red King and the White Queen?

―Yes. And now she presses herself against you, feels your hardness, and so you can feel her breasts.

The barman consults his muse; ―Are you ready for her poison kiss? Death alternates sexily. ―Whatever is her wish, Spiros says and drinks of the aged wine.

The saga braves the wine with a secret. The Star Eagle encounters a forecast.

―She wants to share with you a secret about death, says the barman and smiles. She knows something.

Spiros speaks: ―Why can’t the gift invalidate her unclear synthesis? The defective threshold peers into the satellite death. Opposite the corpse composes the effective decade.

―A cool new law frees the monarch arcade, says the bartender and smiles. Now you can combine dream and reality.

The varying century bridges and breaches. Spiros casts his gaze into the flame of a candle.

―Come in boy. All sins forgiven, says a voice behind him. He turns as he hears the familiar voice. No one is there.

Once Spiros has finished his wine, he bids farewell to the barman and takes off to the crowded streets. Up hills and down alleys he walks in the adventure, the story that his life has become. He returns home to his apartment on Leavingbye Road 216.

―Wait, he says as he enters the apartment. Now I remember. It’s a journey, about returning home. Be gentle with me, Goddess. This is difficult for me.

He walks over to his desk and flies above Diaryland, looking at the notes he wrote some days before in his diary.

―That sentence, he says. The only words I ever knew. It went into a fireplace. You know my memory dear…

He laughs, then sings:

My memory may not be the best But I remember all the rest And that feeling in my chest Babe, it just can't be wrong

Poetry teams the milk future. Darts chart the sentence into an enormous literature. An exotic spectrum crazy kiss timelord slides on top of the messages.

A messenger, an air-pirate, hands Spiros a note from backspace; it comes to him in a little brush of air. Spiros picks it up and reads:

Imagine we came to our jaw shut and held the secret. There was as I hit a crack of the. The questionable alley hit as the new highlight was spotted. Nothing on behalf of day now. Which made myself up to drop back. We blinked at us! The shadow beneath our.

―Sissy my love, Spiros says. Sissy… It’s inside you. Remember! From the radio comes a female voice: ―Well done with the search. We came out of the ground. See secret of me. I know the dark ways over the light channelary circuits.

That evilly sexy heliumlike voice never failed to twist the blood in Spiros’ veins. He sighs of exhaustion and fumbles for a wine bottle.

―He either painted his mind hello or… Spiros says as he pours himself some wine.

The fullmoon appears amongst clouds. A white dove, Bianca, Spiros’ pet and friend, lays a pink egg. Spiros mumbles, moonstruck:

―Wait. I don’t feel well. I’m confused. A red lipstick mark appears on the wall in front of him. The lipstick mark kisses him, then laughs a sharp evil laughter:

―Muah! Muah! Hahahahahahahaha! ―Wait! Spiros exclaims. This is too dangerous for me. I can’t do this.

He looks to his side and peeps at one of the two red stone lion statues. He notices that one of them have been moved slightly.

―Did you move that? he asks. He considers the statues heavy weight. ―You, the White Queen. You evil bitch. Have you moved the statue?

From the radio comes strange music and the same female voice as before, singing:

You can keep breathing… You can keep breathing…

Spiros spots the white marble statue by the window; a woman undressing. He picks it up.

―I always thought this was you, undressing by a river, he says. My White Queen. The one I long for. It comes from my family, this statue. My father and mother got it on their wedding day. It lost its head in a pillow fight when I was a child.

Spiros gives the statue a gentle kiss. ―Dearest, he says. I have failed you. I have lost the rose, I have gone mad, I have fallen.

A note appears before his eyes, on the desk. He picks it up and reads it:

Can a guilty river cope?

Spiros shakes his head in disbelief. Outwords scratch the disappointing air past the hurt for one last time. The regret landscapes route out. Spiros laughs.

―Don’t underestimate the power of, Spiros says. I forgot. Again!

Bianca makes a few noises: ―Becc. Becc. Becc. In haste Spiros writes in his diary:

That woman I met years ago. She told me she had dreamed of me. In her dream we were on a boat, on our way back, she said. Then she vanished. My dark lover.

―In evil company you will find them, your friends, says a messenger.

―Wait, I’m not ready for this, Spiros says. You mean…? No, wait. I’m confused.

The phone rings. Spiros answers. No one is there.

―It’s hidden, Spiros says. The door. Dear, show yourself more clearly.

He gasps for air, remembers: The potential for alchemical wedding with the alien exists now.

―The alchemical wedding, will it…will it really…? He kneels down, holds out a red rose; ―Will you? he asks. Will you marry me? The white dove, Bianca, flies through the room and sits down facing the moved stone lion. Spiros casts a glance toward her. The dove shoots out her breast and nods; Yes I will, yes.

Spiros laughs in ecstatic joy. He rises and walks between the dove and the stone lion, ends up in old Egypt.

Suddenly he feels as though he was born from his own forehead, born from a story, born from a thought, born from a dream, born from a dreamshadow. He casts off his clothes and stands naked in the alchemical mess of his imagination. A flock of two hundred birds comes flying toward the house. He hears the sound of their flapping wings and the sharp sound of their turns as they fly close to the windows. They settle down in trees outside.

―Dreambirds, Spiros says in awe and looks out the window. I had forgotten you! Too drunk to see my mates!

A bird flies by the window and snaps a lock of here from Spiros’ shadow.

―Are you ready? asks a voice. ―I am ready, Spiros says. ―From the eyekethi holdfast was the city of the woods were everywhere, says the voice.

―Yes, I see now, says Spiros. ―Did not you? says a female voice. I did for you. But that is one great difference between us. Compliments always.

―Did I what? Spiros says. Did I what?! ―Believe, says the voice. Remember? What did she say? And what did you say? Yes, I hear you. I shall vanish. I will tell you of my whereabouts in a book of love.

From the radio Spiros hears that same voice:

You can keep breathing… You can keep breathing… When you die

Spiros is stung on his left foot (not by a bee); poison kiss of the Queen of the Hive. The blood vessels of his foot swell up and look like they are about to explode as her alien poison enters his body. His foot turns half alien plastic. He walks carefully across the floor, laughing, feeling stronger than ever, indestructible, as if made by hyperspacial diamond. A little black sperm about an inch long and looking as if made of light appears in the air in front of him. It swims toward his face.

―I am of the stars, says the sperm through telepathy. Spiros spots the decanter of wine on the table and looks at the redpurple liquid within it. He fumbles across the room toward it.

He is beginning to wake up. ―It was the wine! he exclaims. The mushroom wine! Spiros wakes up again through the aeon-long dream within the Great Delirium. He stands naked on the floor of Eternity, beginning to remember. Cute women voices sing to him:

―Vi alle väntar, vi alle väntar. Bianca looks at him with serious eyes, and Spiros sees in her eyes the eyes of Sissy Cogan. She looks a bit worried, and asks if Spiros is doing alright. Spiros looks at himself in the mirror on the wall; in the mirror he sees that his eyelids are shut. He smiles.

nd this way there came a woman of no appearance and she gathered up all the things Spiros had spread on his journey through time and space and carried him away to the invisible dwelling, for he was the pin of her apron. The others knew all along. But he was likely to blow it to a hawker’s hank and tell it all to everyone, and thus she carried away all beguiles to her unseen shielding, and so poor him got wrong again. And it was never so thoughtful of either of them. A

It was all told to Spiros slowly. ―Fly your balloons! says Sissy Cogan. You listener through walls of ages, you my orient explorer. Keyholers of the seven

doors of the dreamadoory in the palace of Hecech Saysaith, we. Cross this desert, cross this ocean. Follow me. You’ll be here and I’ll be near, and that’s the deal my dear. For now.

All those signs of warning. Spiros remembered now. If you continue like that you will disappear, one man had said to him. What a fortune I didn’t follow people’s advise, Spiros thinks and smiles.

―Sweet evil you, Spiros whispers. When they find out, tell me what you think they’ll do.

―They won’t find out, my sweet boy, my sugar. We ran away weekyears ago.

Evening comes and as Spiros lies in bed a wind comes from the side into his mind and carries him gently away to another world. He arrives at a dark black river, a river made of dream and mind. The sound of a sleep fills the space and there is a mindwind blowing. The ventilation system of death and life: the place of passage between worlds.

It has always been here, this place, this thing, Spiros thinks. And there, by the river, lies a woman. She is dreaming of Spiros, giggling in her sleep. Spiros hears her breathing close to him and he enters her dream.

―I will go with you to where the wild roses grow, Spiros says. Sissy Cogan wakes up, hearing Spiros’ voice. ―This is the world of dream! she says excited. Our destiny is to live in the Imagination, don’t you remember? We are moving toward something very much like eternal dreaming. Going into the imagination, and staying there.

―But there is even more! says a female voice.

Spiros wakes up and rises from bed, as from a dream, as into a dream. On his bedside table lies a book, a rose depicted on its cover. He reads the title: Fit To Talk A Dream, by Elton Candid. Inside the book lies an envelope. Spiros pours himself some wine, opens the envelope and begins to read the letter within it:

ugarpeach, my partner in dream and crime, we have so much to talk about. Here, in our S

dimension of liquid literature and imagination, we can do what needs to be done to achieve our victory. Let us play around the great walls. Let us make the news of the hole. How about channel-hopping round the spell? If we do it stumbling or with grace will make no difference.

Sky code, scheming in blue, where are we? We’re awake.

The chiefs of the issuing code on wide world, we. Absolutely. I heard the Goddess say it as she said my voice is hers. From then on I remembered, and we might be able to generate them keywords. Boy, my World. Burning the legacy, of Cycles, and cleaning the amount of the whole time regularly we hung the information.

To do this particular implementation it will be close enough: as a world is done, writing about it; will affect that is in other is still result. Search taking out to raise the messages; to read it is hidden set of fun and not be especially amazing of how to achieve a compass. There is a sign you’ll see it say, create your own universes, say. We have foolproof techniques as guides that have screaming come who have been long in orbit around at top version of thinking the output on you created personal experience using the built into the hall toward its gaze as you read. The elves of language only spaces to that something that you vaguely remember, distribute and go about what sort that tells you is an attempt at the message. The Alchemical Garden comes most often by small increases, the important that we told ourselves from home. Source code so we’ll also work by implementing whatever. The slate is the inspiration. You suddenly see the moon, or maybe things whooshing around to embed the work and I guess this wetscape loves any added support into it for installing the demo.

Be or of say it or you said they actually structurally flaw it to a halt. Connections all gene

after We drank of the brew. It: do that I know, of a woman who doesn’t find any users to unsign We The Operators, resulting in a perfect state speci- fically because if you’re gone these updates can go identify what You mean. Storm to include the door, from developing smallprint fruit salad, I think there are no rules for the options. View the comment happing shaping shaping moving. Just sheer brilliance anykey. Delete the territory found via relay of active Now as far as alliance of future hole time and turn on. We left in shuttles and these updates went into a new extremely shifty. Delete the entry on your life. We‘ve moved to another world, remember?

And here we are now, on both sides of death. All set and more for our friends. Center speaker system melted down for better news. Time those perpetual openings, especially in the closed, on the permit for speaking like when the chaos wants to execute the calm. Finally we give ourselves burning sun.

And there is the Egyption. As we set the last stone we are truly measured in her eyes for as the truth of our work be told our spiral and our rule guide us to it and it’s an opening.

Yours

Spiros gives the letter a kiss. What parallel courses did they take returning? Where? With? Who? Going toward a dark bed there was a. With deep inspiration they returned, retraversing the garden, reentering the passage, reopening the door. Through the back door, kick it in: in, out, through. Channel-hop around the spell.

He sits down by his desk and writes back:

It is with irresistible force, lover of mine, that I write to you. From what I extract of what you say, I understand we really did leave the world. We left the dreary kingdom.

Where is time’s seat, wound within the stream? Slowly it floats, like a dream past a window, from some distant past. A thousand years aside Rosalia’s Dawn, glimm- ering on the surface. A thousand years, a phantom ghost, the thought displays itself, on the answering evening.

That night Spiros had a dream. In it he fell and fell from the sky toward a polished shiny golden mask, a mask like the ones of the sarcophaguses of old Egypt. The mask was huge, its mouth miles wide, fit to talk a dream. He fell and fell toward its shiny lips, and then through the mouth, and he came out in another world.

―Welcome home, said a voice when he arrived.

PIROS tries to understand what is happening. Who is this woman I dream of? Who’s that girl, do I know her face? Am I dead? Have I left into dream to live here forever in a multileveled story? I can feel it, I am a character in a story of some sort. The world: a story. Write myself to another world I shall. I want out. The Great Escape. S

He walks down the pastures outside Old Town, thinking of Sissy’s words.

―Dreams come in many forms, he says. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

He picks up a rock and licks it― something he has learned from his mother as a simple thing you can do to get yourself into a new mindset when you feel stuck.

I have been seen, he thinks. Every time I go I am seen. But by who?

―Sissy, who are you? And how do I find you? He picks up his mobile phone and calls his mother. She answers.

―Christine here, she says. ―Mother, Spiros says. I have had very strange dreams lately. About a woman. She is some kind of witch. And mother, there is something weird about these dreams. They are so real.

―They are dreams at night Spiros, we all dream at night. But yes, it’s fascinating.

―No I’m telling you, there is something weird about all this. And I’m in love. With Sissy. My dark lover.

He sings:

She’s gone to the other side

―You can’t fall in love with someone you met in a dream, Christine says.

―You can! I have. And besides. I’m not sure this has been dream. I mean things have begun blending.

―Spiros, are you alright? You sound a bit…confused. ―I’m fine, I’m fine.

Spiros kisses the corpse of the white dove, Bianca, and phones his mother:

―Is this some kind of joke? he says. Bianca is dead. ―No…what happened? says Christine. ―We lay swooning in bed, and then I fell asleep. When I woke up she was dead. I had rolled over her in my sleep and suffocated her under the pressure of my body, I think.

Christine mumbles: ―The birds… ―Is it some kind of joke or what? ―Wrap her in like a mummy in white cloth and bury her, Christine says. That’s what I think you should do.

―Yes. ―I’m sad to hear, my love. They hang up. Spiros does as his mother suggested.

It is around midsummer and Spiros leaves his apartment on Levingbye Road in Old Town, door wide open as he does not plan to ever come back. He begins to walk down Ignatii Alley. Funny, he thinks, Ignatii. The Bomb. The Bomb is here.

On a bench lies a pink Prada purse and Spiros picks it up and hangs it around his shoulder, then begins to walk toward Wringlish Street. Close to Archive Street the fragrance of a familiar perfume wafts him by. Elle, by Armani. The scent leads him to a fence by the Old Town railway station, and he jumps over it and onto the tracks.

―All signatures I am here to read, Spiros says. And all these books. I am inside their stories.

He thinks again of that passage in James Joyce’s book Ulysses; the garden. With deep inspiration he returned, right? From where? To where? Up the dark winding stairs too, holding a candle.

He dances down the railway tracks toward platform 6, smiling at the flowers breaking through concrete.

―Could we? Could we really have conjured this? he says and thinks of Sissy.

A sign at platform 6 reads, beside an arrow: Land Of Make Believe. Beside it is a commercial depicting a yellow water post formed like an elf, by the text: They Exist. Spiros follows the sign into the main hall of Central Station, Old Town’s main railway station.

The position of books are switched in the bookshop behind him. He turns his face and in his field of vision sees a woman as she almost unnoticeably licks the mouth-end of a long white cigarette holder, moving it for a puff.

―Yes and where better to hide it than in lives like ours? Spiros hears her say as she talks in a mobile phone.

The woman casts a quick eye toward Spiros, then says: ―We’re as close as we can get at the moment. A man beside Spiros overhears the woman’s conversation too, and seems to be experiencing something strange. He turns toward Spiros and says with fear and panic in his voice:

―What the fuck is happening? Are you controlling this? Huh!? Are you controlling this?!

Spiros, tanned and feeling as though he were in the tropics, hot and thirsty, laughing, pretends to not hear. He says to the man:

―You want a cigarette? Nykkel Humphry, master hacker of The Subnatural Rescue Team, cues the song Hotel California by The Eagles in his computer and a moan sample in his Triton Pro sampler.

―The stellular prismatic stone, Nykkel says. Talk on it, the phone.

―You’re out in five, says the Supervisor. ―Beam an erotic picture, says Nykkel Humphry. A picture of a man and a woman appears on Nykkel’s computer screen.

―That’s not erotic, he says. ―How is that not erotic? says the Supervisor. She’s straddling him.

―True, Nykkel laughs. Spiros writes on a wall with a red marker:

Breaking into the seed. The internet age is ova’.

The internet age is ova? Ovule? Spiros empties the pink Prada purse by the fountain outside the main hall. It contains: a black and gold case of Sweets Filter cigars from Ritmeester; An Alien Star freestyle; Lipstick, lip gloss, lip pencil, rouge, mascara, eye liner, eye shadow (Vegan, from the Purple Night series); A photograph of a woman in a white dress straddling a man on a green pasture; A moist white finely woven shawl; An old comic book called The City That Didn’t Exist; A thick paperback book with title In The Mid Die.

―Let’s speed ahead. He turns on the Alien Star freestyle, puts the headphones in his ears and listens to the music. He hears The Eagles’ song Hotel California.

It’s some kind of telepathy, Spiros figures. Sissy really does exist. But where is she? And by God telepathy is not the only thing going on here. Things are changing down to the physics.

He takes off the headphones and looks around, enters Central Station’s main hall again. A woman in a white fake fur coat passes him by and smiles a sharp smile in his direction. In the same time he hears music and he walks up to its source. It leads him to an internet café where a TV is blasting a music video. The lead singer is a young woman in a white fur coat. He thinks he hears her sing:

I’ve noticed attention…see through me

Spiros claws the window of the café and spins his head, feeling the level of madness rise exponentially.

―I’ve also seen attention see through me, he whispers and smiles victoriously. Mmm, you like me like this huh, you evil. All mad and clawing the walls.

I want perfection

He shakes himself out of the trance and wanders off to find a restaurant. He decides to go to the bar at the top of Hotel Flora Plus Universe, Star City, and swings happily through the golden swing doors and in to the lobby. They are enjoyable, luxurious places like this, he thinks as he looks around at the tasteful architecture of the luxury hotel. Diamonds and gold. He makes his

way to the elevator and presses the button, and suddenly remembers what he heard in a dream once: The mobilisation of the Star City, will take place.

I’ll take something to drink. Champagne. I want a bottle of champagne. He places his order and sits down by the bar. This is insane. This is insane. And I’m fucking loving it.

He thinks of Sissy. Well done with the search. We came out of the ground. I know the dark ways over the light channelary circuits.

He picks up the book he found by his bedside table days earlier, Fit to Talk a Dream, and lays it on the bar. Soon his champagne arrives and he starts flicking through the book at random, sipping champagne all the meanwhile and enjoying the music. On page 69 he finds a passage that especially catches his attention:

The secret thus makes its appearance on Apriloctober Blue with a logarithmically vast amount of smart cases, of our special Relativity which can demonstrate it, of the numerous Sub Divided. Rotational equivalents of the Star Formation about it created as our cited sources of the comprehensive general geophysics and physics that also makes a central mass, increases as on one motor to extension. Members who can pitched buzzing sound current, referred to, of holographic inserts into the world.

The evolution complete. Now opens the world. Welcome to Plomari, a world you could not conceive possible.

Same time, it. Let in the morning light. The future’s breath is upon us.

To be recognized by us, and find our info about miles of magnets to keys to doors, seemingly for granted except for who benefits, or why The United Center of Past Several Years and lighter elements by written in diameter, cigarette factories, and breakup into these events! The prismic physicists of The Subnatural Rescue Team, will continue; as will the concepts of the Future or center disc. For now.

And there were the morning hours in the corner. And there were the scrolls from half sleep. Semisleep poetry that reaches across the changeover. The altering is in the happening. And all us changelings who download this delicate data to crack matter open and leave only the Imagination left, begin now our entry into the world.

If everything is language; If phonics are the sonic harmonic hedonics tangential to the existential architectonics, that we have become word itself (?). What happens if the linear time conceptualization is transcended?

Everything happens perfectly naturally. Guide to me you said. Beam. The solid and ancient connection. These lines run tangential to the intentional. The terms ‘fate’ and ‘destiny’ crumble against the honest rhythm. We are pure intelligence. We are Logos incarnate. We are the psycho-semantic police, you can’t even see us.

The masterbeam knows what you mean. Back in old Egypt we have a saying: On Time. Everything happens right on time.

The black birds know, happened long ago. Nearby, but away, lies our world. It’s a doubleworld issue. And a note, incomplete, was composed, by itself at parts dealing with the issue:

Before, is impossible for a matter of magnitude to exist ‘separate’. But when it is in its identity through the ‘altering’, whereas in so far as it is potentially ‘flesh’ only, it is drawn from the science of nature, the rules change. Our meaning will become clear ‘association’, and of ‘action’ and ‘passion’. Now ‘association’ is what sets everything else in motion by being itself continuouslyposition, have their extremes ‘together’ (and ‘association’ have ‘weight’ or ‘lightness’, either both these qualities or one or the other). And since position belongs times. Nothing impossible will have resulted, though perhaps, it seems so.

And later at various places; Split second. We ran away weekyears ago.

It [the event of the Bomb] made it into every newspaper and every corner of the world, rather unnoticeably. Faster than any explosion ever recorded. Was blast say who reckon.

And now comes this waterwhirl in this pool of information. Someby this wide routing slipped in. Ask me where I shall circularly tell you. Newsfind about yourself or scaretry demo. After earlier squads mysterious ram page is. Three. If a this is in your first. Two. When not is blasting away or screaming get! One. Code is server dedicated listen slowping. Dark signal has arrived. Two. Characters coalition ordered. Here Pagemore? Timenuke Lovenuke.

HEN they find out we have a little key, what do you think they’ll do? Spiros whispers as he lets his head fall to rest on the pillow. W

He remembers Sissy’s words: They won’t find out, my sweet boy, my sugar. We ran away weekyears ago.

―The hour…may I? May I touch your…? ―O, but lightly! says the hour. ―Speak about it more, my Queen. The Bomb and the land of the dead, Spiros says lowly.

―This world is by the work of story, says the Queen. Hint: take a look at your life as narrative. From the beginning it swelled up like gentle blood from heart in bliss; divine. Yes, you are stardust, my dear, but it is more correct to claim to be the dust of story. In fact, technically you are member of the afterlife; you do not exactly qualify as life. Virgin birth of eternity. You are located in the land of the dead. Most humans are in a state of deep deep denial concerning this, but the fact is that all the beings on Earth are ghosts. We look out of our eyes from another place, and we bucket that place into our present. It is the other world we are bucketing in. The Imagination. Exported over here, to the far side of happiness. You know the secret, dear. You can forget all I have ever said once you know that secret.

The alieness smiles at the edge of Spiros’ space-time and kisses him gently and girlishly, then whispers:

―And the secret of the Imagimatrix, dearest. More cream. Strange, Spiros thinks as he enters the intermediate zone between sleep and awake. But it kind of makes sense.

―See, my dearest, continues the alien voice, the next world is by the work of Man through story. Matter is not matter; it is the manifestation of story, of consciousness. That is why you might find a brush of hair on your body where Jesus so as told got stabbed on the cross. The special light of the Rosy Dawn, as it is called amongst the shamans and alchemists who know of this, reaches across time and place, shimmering in many dimensions at once. Manifested is stories. We are manifestation of stories. And now it takes a turn, as the rosy intersection of all stories has begun and that in turn opens up the gates to the alien Queendom― the Star. The witches know of this.

―So story is what it is all made of, this world? Spiros asks.

―Yes, my dear, matter is story. And now, as the witches have known, the story begins to untie itself from its constraints and forth comes the world you cannot imagine from this side of the river. We will become the stuff of dreams. Already our dreams are seeping into the world of matter― and now, dream is becoming stronger than the laws of physics. You can hear it, you can feel it, you can see it. The transcendental is entering from all sides at once, changing the world down to its physics.

―The strange whisperings of the gods, the strange promptings of the sacred imagination, Spiros mumbles and smiles.

―It's no accident, Spiros, that when you look closely into the eyes of another, the very first thing you see, is yourself. That when you hold their hand, you can feel your own warmth. And that when you give of yourself, you give to yourself. Because, quite simply, both you, and they, are me. Freaky, Spiros? Maybe. An accident? No.

In his head reverberates the sound of Om Namah Shivaya through a song by Sir Ravi Shankar, and he soon falls asleep.

Suddenly he finds himself up on a shelf in a cave by the mighty Nile in Egypt. He is a crow. He looks down and sees a podium on which a huge book lies, its pages blowing gently in the breeze. He flies out of the cave and transforms into his human form and stands feet warm against the sand on the shore of the river. Over the water come two women, nude, on strange hovering futuristic vehicles that look a bit like waterscooters, white and a light blue. Drops of water glister on their awesomely sculpted bodies. Spiros thinks of how they look as though they come from the future. The women turn slowly to look at him and they say with their eyes:

―It is time. Spiros nods. And he knows: it is time. He walks across the sand and enters the cave again, going deeper and deeper into it. It becomes a tunnel. In the tunnel he is met by book pages swirling in the wind, swirling around him. He grabs hold of a few pages, understanding that what he reads will be of crucial importance in what now is to come He reads in deep focus amidst the dancing pages, and soon the pages disappear. He walks through the tunnel and comes out in the 21st century.

arling peach, cosmos is the beginning. I see visions of the new world of which the voice speaks, and I think we know what we shallt do to create it. And keep thy belief from incarnating through this veil to the Rosa. In the thick darkness the seed of trees and brush ahead spring open and infiltrate the fertile soil; the new world is taking form. D

Spiros bows and answers: ―We shall lift the century. He lifts his hand and holds his palm up toward the rising sun. ―Born from your own disguise, he giggles. That almost makes sense…

―Not even the Devil would recognize us, my dear.

Sissy Cogan stands by a pot full of a redpurple liquid, stirring in it with gentle hand.

―And we can take this huge inner universe, and put it inside eternity, and then fold it, she says excited, smiling, and keeps stirring.

The mirror of the brew’s surface already mirrors the future it draws closer. Spiros says gently:

―That is what we shall do.

The inner (dream) world exists in parallel with the Earth (of the living) and with the skies (of the deities). It is after death and before life. This realm is what you enter during the hours of sleep.

The radical truth is that you are not a human being in a physical world. The radical truth is you are utterly free without any boundary or limitation whatsoever. You are unborn and there is no death. The radical truth is that nothing has ever been created. Prior to existence or nonexistence.

Eros never grew a beard, as Hakim Bey so beautifully has stated. Easy as dark castle it is, to make your way out of your century and

on to wherever you want to go. On to the other worlds, for instance the newuniversal structure of the future (Alien), Yourowndreamland, The City of the Dead, the City of No Addresses, and all those places. Plomari. Steal back your prophethood of chaos like the perfect erocriminal you are.

Sissy Cogan jumps up onto a rock and says to her imaginary audience:

―Most dearly beloved, friends and family. We have constructed pyramids in honor of our escape. Children, excuse us that we did not tell you earlier. The river contains specimens.

Live with us in Foreasavasiour! ―And here we are now, Sissy continues, on both sides of death. Code from the calendar running every time. It involves actually get see. If you make it out of your century you make it everywhere. There are doors. And things are as marvellous as you can imagine them. Don’t be fooled by dull mind. Be a prism. Write your own universe.

The birds listen. They look at our dear Sissy as she stands in victory on a rock on loving Earth by the mighty river. And they laugh at how cute she is. It’s those girlish green eyes of hers, so girlish and yet so ancient and deep and motherly, in them or from them shines all the ages and a secret so strange and happy that only a god could have figured such a marvellous thing.

―We fell on a bumpy road! a bird laughs. That’s what history is!

―Whoops! Sissy laughs. ―Can someone make us shut up about it! cries another bird. ―No! We shall disclose all the secrets! says Sissy. Sissy sits down by a large tree just at the edge of the river and looks out across the grass. With swiftly moving eyes and the corners of her mouth twitching in smiles she writes in her diary the words of William Butler Yeats in his Sailing to Byzantium.

―Gather me, she whispers. Merge me into the artifice of eternity.

A sharp-winged phoenix flies through her eyes. Rays of the Star Eagle shimmer along her eyelashes and she blinks happily.

Here anything can happen. Here destinies unimaginable are formed and linked and rerouted, in the spell of a magic that can

hardly be defined― only known and experienced. Here, in our world without name.

The Bomb, and: A break from linear time to a logic of dream, while absorbing holographically all prior disparate time sequences. And then!

―It can’t be. It must be! No, it is up for decision. You can redefine it at any time.

Spiros is above the Earth in a little white and light blue spaceship. The little ship is lit up with bright light. Spiros considers the tasteful architecture and rests in the silence.

Up beside him comes two women.2 Spiros looks in awe at their beauty and the futuristic almost insectile, alien look they have about them. He is reminded of the woman he met by the Nile, a while ago, and wonders if it’s actually them.

―It’s about time we infect it then, says one of the women with a twisted heliumlike voice.

And the alienlike women aboard the ship begin to tell Spiros about the Star, and Spiros listens, and he knows, that this is connected to the secrets of the Saussiepan and the Alien.

The Star is the name of a situation of the future that amongst other things has total control and access to all of time and space in the area of the Earth. Technology so advanced it is purely imagined. Technology so advanced it doesn’t exist! The Star is a communications station― but it is much more than that as well. It is part of the future newuniversal structure.

―The human species is now in the process of becoming part of this vast newuniversal world, says one of the women. Humans in the hundreds of millions are in direct contact with the Star and the civilisations of the future. Under certain circumstances the laws of physics fail to apply perfectly, you may have noticed this in your own life. This is the future seeping in to the present. This is signs of contact. The future is a new kind of universe, with another set of laws, and it is basically very fluid.

―It can’t just reveal itself, Spiros says and giggles. If it would we would be fried.

The two women giggle with him.

―Yes! It is grooming us to be able to tolerate its splendour! ―Now c’mon sexy, says one of the women. Will you go with us now? Wake up forever?

―Not now, says Spiros. ―Before you go, Spiros. Remember. All you need to remember is your dream.

ading through notes in the little house by the river Spiros searches for keys. He is beginning to remember; We were in the garden, brewing by archlight. Something happened. The river’s end: what lies beyond it. And with deep inspiration he returned, re-traversing the garden, re-entering the passage, reopening the door. W

He wanders with his thoughts, giggling and sipping wine. ―My wife in my head, he says to the memory of the white dove Bianca1 and laughs. We’ve been talking to each other for what feels like hundreds of years, trying to find the meeting place. We lost each other by the river somehow. I must find my way back. We entered story, and I got lost in it. Is that what happened? He picks up the copy of Fit To Talk A Dream, that strange book he found a few days ago on his bedside table, opens it and reads what has been scribbled on the first page:

By the River, and you said, I’m falling falling for you babe. Why are you taking so long, indeed,

Could you come in five?

He pours himself some wine, lights a pipe in which he has with care stuffed crystalline crush of dried red roses, golden tobacco, and chaliponga, and sits down in the antique chair by the window, the chair with its lovely clothing of black woven horsehair, to read again the beginning of the book. He thinks of her words: I am the darkest lady on the taste on your tongue. The woman of the dark river. He begins to read:

M

ythster Him Diamond, as his name is, inherent in it the implication of divine nature and power, forweardmercung inwith the world of myth and dream working with it almost like one would cooperate with tongueolcræft, and his wife She Diamond, went deeper where many rivers are named, expressing invocation of, reliance on, and devotion to

1 Her feathers: streaming rays of the Star Eagle. And a diamond lies in the corner of her eye!

the angels of Godhead by reference to the Deity, to take to that on which it grows, take hold and get rooted, without the idea of force or art, and with instrumentality but no consideration, bed their bodies into the artifice of eternity by their own acts, bringing into some relation to themselves the structure of the new world, to charge themselves with a function, assuming it as if granted, with the idea of choice, to enter upon a way and obtain from the source and get a good eyesalve, to deduce, get information and evidence, and conceive and exercise courage, with nearly the force of with movement or removal moves, to carry, convey, and cause the movement to the future state, to promote, without employing violence, the point from which it moved, marked by a deliver, to flourish, to take part in the play and engage with the mind and soul and will in some specified way the new and not yet used, untried, now existing for the first time kind of now first invented or introduced freshly at present, accompanied by feelings, experience, and events, coming as restored after demolition, decay, and disappearance, as applied to the sun and moon, new, fresh, novel, different from that previously existing, and to distinguish the thing spoken of from the old or already existing, of the same kind of old origin, that has existed long and has been impaired by use, so as to having come into a certain state and relationship to them, thus experienced again, which is what they meant to part from at present this time, with weakened temporal sense mid the presence of it to cohabit mid and midmest of the gift.

It worked. Bright and shining as fairies of elfin beauty, radiant, literally ælfscínu, they both thus under elfish influence were handed the key that offers free ingress and free egress.

Alchemical love tales had always been a part of Spiros’ life and now his own life had become one. Something so marvellous it cannot be imagined from here lies on the other side of the river’s end. Not even another cosmos; something entirely different. I have been there, Spiros thinks: In the dark black river made of dream and mind― and what lies beyond its end. The ventilation system of death and life, where a soulwind blows. I am there too, always, as I am here. I shall escape to that other place.2 I shall walk in to the palace.

―No one will know, Spiros hears a voice whisper. No one will know.

He is reminded of the words that came to him one autumn evening by the fireplace at his father’s summerhouse on Choicepoint Road. He had been sitting by the crackling fire, he was only sixteen years old, and a voice spoke to him and said:

This is your last life You’ll never die again

He had never understood what those words meant. To live forever seems an impossibility. But what happens if the linear time conceptualisation is transcended?

Something else will do instead of securing eternity.

What does it mean, Sis? Why is eternity forever? And are there dimensions without time? Yes, there are. There must be. There must be other worlds. And I am finding them. I will leave the 21st century. But where will I come out? O Anna Livia, you impossibly flowing river, show me more, tell me all about yourself!

Spiros licks cheap wine off the edge of his glass and wanders on with his thoughts. He is not surprised about the weird events that have begun happening. He had expected something like this to happen all his life. He had always pursued magic and weirdness, and now, he felt, came the first true pay-off. The one

2 Yes, there is where!

who searches finds. Dream on, he is reminded, and one day we’ll move in to our castle in the clouds.

He studies the pages of the book. It is an old book. He kisses the pages and smiles. Beautiful beautiful book. My map out of the century. My map back home where I belong. Dip a drop of dream onto a bookpage and get a discovering swiftly computing surface. Of course it all fits.

O let’s talk about this pearl. Not free in your inhibitions? You can fly. Through the everwhen sky. Say hello to The Rosy Dawn (hint recommended). It brings in return all the plus sides of language whitespace sensitivity, readability, less punctuation, etcetera. Things of the name of the game. Functions for option tree manipulation. Asynchronous evaluation with optional timeouts. Make functions faster by trading space for time. Access the lines of a disc via a Prism3 array. Deliver model yourstyle dia Gnostic messages. S

He thinks about the prismatic language. Consider for instance as light moves from one medium to another denser medium it is slowed down and is either bent or reflected. The angle that the beam of light makes with the interface as well as the refractive indices of the two media determine whether it is reflected or refracted, and by how much. Thus shine it from and in several locations at once. Book pages with a touch of 3D. Or PrismD rather. Makes you think of the dynamic programmer language. Did you know that the language does not describe directly the location of the resource to be retrieved? It describes instead an intermediate location which when retrieved results in redirection to the present location of the final source. Persistent uniform resource locator I mean. And did you know that the luster of pearls depends on the refraction and reflection of light from their translucent layers and is finer as the layers become thinner and more numerous?

Place a pearl…in a dream…and… He giggles. Father! He puts down the book as he is suddenly reminded of the day back in 2oo2 when he thought time had collapsed and history had ended. He had called his father that day and said:

―It’s over! The story is over! But it was not over, or so it seemed. The story continues still. There were fireworks and circus music in Spiros’ head that day, as he lay on the floor thinking he was about to be sucked up into some kind of eternity. Voices had shouted in the space his head was in: “It’s over, it’s over! Welcome!” People all over the

3 Prism. Ripio. Inter. Shimmer. Matterlux.

planet and everywhere through time in telepathic connection with each other. Everyone, up in the timeweb. The great superorganic cyberamerzonian4 loveorgasm at the edges of time.

This time we’ll all be souls of endless love

Endless love, love that holds the cosmos together like some kind of glue. Spiros was up in the timeweb that day. The timestretch, where the plasticity of time is so apparent. And people were screaming “Here we go, here we go, get ready, here it comes!” Pop-pop sounds and fireworks at the end of history, in hyperspace. His immediate surroundings, the walls and the whole house, crackled with small chirping sounds, chisting sounds, pop, pop, poppo, as though the world was about to hyperdimens- ionally fold up into some new dimension and was breaking apart. Spiros thought it was time to depart to hyperspace, but it hadn’t been, it seemed. Soon he had found himself back in his ordinary mindset and everything seemed as usual.

Or maybe I really did leave, Spiros thinks. Maybe I am on new ground.

All the shamans were there. All of them, with their minds up in the timeweb. Here comes everybody. And the bibs are free!

He is reminded of the letter in the book Fit to Talk a Dream:

With plenty of greetings from all the boys and babes of history we wish to send our love to where you are. A billion cheers through time― to life! Does anyone remember how we got here? Everyone everyyear, consult the ministering angels about it.

From the big team of Saucers and the one big Saussiepan

(Meet us anywhere in at Junction)

Spiros has a hard time understanding what is happening but he is beginning to understand it like a storyteller begins to understand the intricacies of his plot. Sissy: sorceress, most dead of witches, and somehow she is connected to the alien. She comes

4 Let us all hope this word does not mean anything particular.

from the other side? Spiros: a manlion of the gentle blood, Mythster Houdini (he would have made that be about pussy, the dirty young man!) who escape goes out of the 21st century to find another world. And what did he find? He found that he had already left from another time from another time and whoops the bright future appeared! In storyland there is no beginning and no end: it has no clear edges. And he is beginning to remember, our dear Spiros Chessmaster Cogan, as he could be called for the sake of turning the key.

Father! I knew I had forgotten something. He walks across the room and lifts the handset of the telephone and calls his father by long-distance hardcore landline. Patrik answers.

―Hey, Puppy, it’s me, says Spiros. What does a man of your guard do a fine day like this?

―I am enjoying a beer on the sunny side, says Puppy. They exchange a few happy words and then leave each other with the promise of having dinner some evening soon. Spiros thinks for a while about all the fathers that have lived and will live, then all the mothers. He returns to Fit To Talk A Dream as the sun comes through the clouds and casts its golden light onto the walls. Nightletter! Of course it all fits. Not free in your inhibitions? You can fly.

Use the prism…loose the prism…it may be keyed both ways… He pours himself more wine and sits down and relaxes, looking at the miracle of the sun. O, closing in, my world dissolving, and your love in the headlights. Are we there yet? I just can't wait to be with you! I just can't wait! The waiting, O the waiting. O, please be there, please be there. It's all that I have ever waned, it's all I want in the whole univrese.

―Newsick tonight, Wintjabernatrice shouts happily, I want you newsick tonight!

Spiros fingers with rosy petals. Loves them. Licks the floor. Rises to his feet. He comments to himself that it feels like spring inside the house. All windows open to the vast landscape outside. A vine, a purple Ipomoea, crawls slowly in through the kitchen

window, up the old herb rack now. Bees buzz around by the sunflower in the vase on the center pedestal. The world rests in a calm silence.

Every time Spiros casts a glance out the window his eyes meet a bird. As though they all see through the same eyes, as though they know where he will look before he even looks there. They are not but birds, these dreambirds. Gaian angels, part of the team. The witches know this. And they know of the return.

They will greet you when you awake. Time, you see, is how long it takes for you to understand that you are dreaming.

He steps around carefully about the house, white bed sheet round his waist, working with the many notes and trails of bookpages scattered around him. Everywhere strange words, as from lands and times elsewhere; directions, signs, messages, names, and what looks like general mushmash but makes sense in some strange dreamy way. Writing like As our whereabouts were claxonised in the time of hyacinth the day the family of Elsingard, of no address, passed a note to tell their new language so we can meet by a certain tree by roads of joy and songs of directionates. Wordpainters and mixers who know that words are not words thus began to assign themselves certain signs so that in all directions it would still point to the place of meeting, when possible, and otherwise be a love letter, a joke, or other happy greeting, to friend or anyone whose eyes may happen to fall upon the text.

―Beam with me through this. The music from the radio delivers a message:

That’s one thing I do I can walkie-talkie with you You scared?

―No I’m not scared, says Spiros. ―We can open a corner-mind up. All signs I am here to read. Components of the Afterhour. Accidental music arranged. Do we punch in coordinates with words?

He wanders around and reads and writes and thinks and dreams, on holiday, in some other world, where the music of the radio is all the colors of summer, and where the dripping incense

is more than scent and smoke, it is the sun. Speak like singing, Mrs She Diamond. Felix and Felicia under the mistletoe sun. Smoke the Sun, for real. I ym dishodil deli ca synҐ a k’to, part a word here and a part a word there, spread out, I am deliciously Li. Syntax of halfsleep, syntax of dream. If I could only bring you back. Can I? I can! It flows like sweet poison into the room, covers the floor, first, then spreads everywhere. Everywhere! What a generalization! It spreads everywhere. And it brings straws of reed from Egypt into my little house here at the 21st century. Here I am, under the Aluminalien moon. Chessmaster Spiros of the imagination.

Inhabitants of the dreamworld, why won’t a verbatim lord mask the galaxy? How will the links merge into the frightened newspapers, magazines, books, TV-shows, commercials, movies? Why won’t a changeover worry about the seemingly infallible information?

Bookshrine of the imagination. It leads to a gate. I have been there, walked through it. I must find my way back. The fall is re- enacted in my life as is the resurrection, but everything mixed, mixed, mixed. Three days I have been lying in my bedtomb, dreaming of Egypt and of the time we sat by archlight brewing our special brew, the Spice. Two female forms came to me in the night, that must have been you, my dears. And here I am in my bedworld, following the signs that lead up the river. The sheets are comfy and silky. Here I could lie forever. Going toward a dark bed, going toward a dark bed…

I dreamed of the perfect end of a book last night, but cannot remember anything of it. Publish, yes, publish was part of the last sentence. Publish make dream real. Publish a dream. Yes, writers of our tales we are, that is what the brew made of us. And life became a story. I saw someone typing away at my keyboard last summer, must have been you. We are in the same room, on different levels. Time spectrums. That is how it is, I know it now.

Make ways for travelling. Building the roads of the new kingdom. We are the Logos incarnate, you can’t even see us.

A wedding in the head. In bed bed bed in bed we shall wed! He sips some wine. Notices that the stopper of the decanter is gone. Rolls a cigarette out of the pages of a book. Lights a match. Puffs.

The subtle fume. ―Tap your glass against the moon and celebrate. Victory is near!

―We have already won. Victory! Yes, and here we are, celebrating between suns.

How does my tracked attendant inhabit a cigarette? How does the swallow trace the sunny union?

Above the strategic detail vanishes its print poet. Spiros smokes near the aforementioned scrap; smokes words and letters, and they transmelt to other places in the world that could only be called the land of the Spice, the land of the redpurple wine. We are on the finerverse spice. Space, rearrange that. I wonder when will my flying carpet harden today. And what izzz reality? Puzzzly. Zzzlippery.

An air-pirate speaks, with a grin: ―I smell something burning. Or has reality just disappeared? Questions arise in me this day. And answers. Yes and down in the cellar. Glandular fabricats. Books with hands. It just kept talking in one incredibly long sentence moving from topic to topic yes just like border-info. Let us make it clear that the Muse refuses to at the moment give any information about what this thing actually is or does. One can cooperate with language in the way it creates…

The awkward disclaimer rackets near the nominated bird. The sexy territory pretends to be rottenness behind the birthday. Nude soaps the obstruction. Spiros looks at the mess of the apartment and continues onward. He writes in his diary;

I saw a pair of very seductive slippers today, as I walked in Old Town. Shoes without feet. Then I met a woman in a bar when I sat down for a glass of champagne.

―You’re nasty I like you, she said to me. My name is Barbara, she said.

69 money cost our bill. When she saw the bill she asked me: ―Do you know this receipt? Are you friend of the receipt? ―Not this receipt, I said. Then we laughed and talked, then she left. And as she left she said to me:

―You smell rotten.

Barbara. Plastic nude babe. It hit me after she had vanished. Babe, on her way, my lover on the other side.

―Get on your knees boy and worship me, says Wintjabernatrice. I just love seeing that.

―Bring forth the strawberries! From the radio Spiros hears music and the words: There is no way for me to know if you are there.

Language twists before the branded mania. Spiros continues to write:

And the alien, the Goddess. Her devastatingly good bandwidth blanks understanding. Why can’t this outcome overlap? Can she handle randomness?

Sparks in the ashtray arise, then fire. Spiros smokes plastic and purple flower petal crush. He hears a sweet voice singing:

I’ll talk when you can hear me On a mushroom you’ll hear me, incomplete O, on the river bank I want to explore you In our harem world so viciously delicious Hear me whisper, feel me love I am your dirty little honey girl I know you are so young and ancient But I can show you things I’m sure you’ve never known

Does she with the blamed nickname judge a diary? Does her moon revolt behind every painful jail? Has anyone ever been caught? Who are the mirrorpeople? Can a lightweight angel code a freeway? Who wins the lightweight championship?

The loving postcard tries around a few galaxies. Spiros kneels down, speaks to the ghostess:

―Does an instantaneous change overcome your visage at dusk? And what does it mean: They cruise under every pencil?

It seemed like the real thing. Back to the superficial… You make the surprise. The pitfall mans the secret birth. Its ray escapes through a delicate passage. The abstract pieces notes against another spaced paste.

The deal that rocks your socks off. The word works.

A wet cigarette appears. She often does that to show she’s getting hot; put wet things in front of Spiros.

Love is what you see, love is what you hear, this is the way of a happy frontier. I believe in fairy tales, and I believe in happy endings.

Goodbye for now diary.

In the night Spiros falls down into the blackblue ocean. He tries to swim up but cannot.

―At last, he says. Sissy and Wintjabernatrice sing to him under the water; magical words, gatewords.

Soon Spiros wakes up. The words are gone, he cannot remember them, but the lucid experience of his meeting with Sissy and Wintja is clear, and its taste fills his soul.

Spiros walks down by the horseracing tracks when the Queen tells him to stop and look.

―See that horse there? she asks. ―Yes, says Spiros and looks at the horse tripping around slowly, and the woman on it.

―Control it, says the Queen. Spiros looks at the horse and smiles. ―Stop, he says quietly. The horse stops immediately. The woman on the horse tries with her whip to make the horse move but the horse stands still.

―Move, says Spiros. The horse begins to step forward and runs in a little circle. ―Stop, says Spiros and the horse stops. Move. Stop. Move. After having made the horse stop and move six times Spiros asks the Queen, giggling:

―What are you trying to show me? ―That everything is hallucination, my love, says the Queen.

E call her the wild rose, but her name is Sissy Cogan. Her hair is long down to her waist, a dark dark brown, and her eyes are a shimmering green. Her face I will say nothing of, let me just say she is beautiful to the brink of terror (Let’s not be so disrespectful as to try and express her splendour in words). Her nature is obscure, she is surrounded in mystery. And we call her the wild rose. As for she can shake eternity. Shake creation and lick eternity! And plenty good enough! W

She is the alien. Storiella. She is the Seamstress .She cannot be understood with the intellect, you must sense her. She is veiled in mystery and if you wish to understand these mysteries you must venture deep into the Queendoms of sensitivity and feeling. The river that runs to her and the ocean she rests in mirrors her being.

It is a sort of paradox that her name is Sissy for she is anything but a sissy.

―Sissy Cogan! What sort of name is that!? That is the most stupid name I have ever heard! she heard once.

But she did not care. She knew her name was of magical nature. And she knew, already long ago, that she is famous up in the timeweb. Sissy Cogan: one of the interdimensionally best known unknown.

―I am leaving, Spiros had said. There are other worlds. I’m tired of this bullshit I was born into.

―Wait for me and I will go with you, my love, Sissy had said to him.

That was just before the date was to be displaced. They spoke about the sunshining spice wine, Our Famous Unobtainable Brand, how it is just like sunshine, glowing yellow and orange from its redness in the candlelight, and with a hint of night’s touch a hint of violet, and is fluid like light, swaying softly in your glass spilling drops of light that fly softly through the air. It looks a slant like the sun in the afternoon, and it tickles against your lips and tongue in a sweet sensation and makes you fall in love if you aren’t already. It is the best wine ever, and they had loads of it in a handmade water butt. And they walked the silverstone stairways running through the vast hills of meadowland, with the sun slanting in to the forest, and they stopped by the river and put

down their glasses on the ground, and Sissy slid her hands up Spiros back and into his hair and Spiros squeezed her against him and scanned her face with his eyes and she felt his heavy body steady against her.

Sissy lies on the grass in tipsy bliss. …and you grabbed my hair and dove into my neck and bit me there gently but with force and squeezed me tighter as I wrapped my arms around you. Leaves fell soundlessly through the air around us and made like little boats on the river’s surface and the wind wift the trees as I let my white dress fall slowly to the ground letting my naked bodhy out into the open and I unwrapped the bed sheet from around your waist and we stand holding each other just feeling the wind and our skin together we look around at all the beauty and I jump up on you and hang around your hips and my breasts against your chest and we hug tight together and laugh as the sun bursts through the treetops to heat our skin and we run down to the river and dive into the clear crystal water.

Our plan worked, my dearest. Unincarnadine dawn arisen. First words now. You remember? You, my sweet evil. Die and come back alie.

What does it mean to fake your death and wake up dreaming? Spiros lets the question float around in his world. Clouds, chryssanthial5 fluffy surreal clouds, lie across the dome of the sky― he sees them through the window. The clouds, painted in the dome of the outside of my head. And here I am, in the world you can bend with your smile. The wunderdome. I am not the first to enter. Nor am I the last. Hoorray!

He sits down by the computer terminal and checks the trash bin of his email inbox for spam emails, something he does often in search for keys, and finds the following, what looks like a poem, that he reads with delight:

5 Like the clouds look where angels fly in frescos.

That middle square of the Pyramid In a single floral stroke At balls kiss again and again toward her offspring With a hand freed from weight Intending to express The high spread over the earth Glimmering of light In rock waters and stone waves, far from night And dancing on the basepath is The form sought for millennia

And the wide arrowhead, the road itself Where fires are lit Points toward our hidden metropolis Speaking of itself and the beyonds

Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive The people celebrate between suns And shadows keep piling up as surfaces Home at last

―We have constructed pyramids in honour of our escaping, says Spiros, quoting Jim Morrison.

Death. Escape. The chrysalis. Fly away.6 He remembers the words of his old friend Joel: You can’t escape it! But Spiros had always thought there must be a way. Escape. Escape boredom. Escape pain. Escape civilisation, jobs, death. Escape physis. There must be a way. Like Bokestruts.

He reads on, the next spam email:7

6

7 And watching the computer mouse position: like they had or have been dumped into the display real world.

Hello! Design patterns, you’ll avoid the Factory. Head first. Will load patterns into your challenging. Something more complex. With head first somewhere in the world, support in your own code. Your brain works. How the Factory designs problems is so often misunderstood. Something more is struggling with secret language or and background, in a way that makes you be wrong (and what You’ll easily counter with your brain in a way that sticks). To learn how those more complex. patterns look in support in your own code. Something more fun. Decorator is something from Best of all, in a way that you will not learn by reading those reinvent the wheel texts.

Demons never guarded the stars. You are free. Click here for anal porn.

Good place to hide things, in spam emails. Bianca the white angel dove comes flying through the air and lands on Spiros’ head where she quickly lays a little poop.

―Becc, Bianca says. When an angelic white dove comes and shits on your head, you know you are rich, Spiros thinks. Her feathers are crystal. Red eyes she has. Red and white― the union of the Red King and the White Queen. I still don’t know what it means, that union. Alchemy. It means many things to me.

Born in a strange century I am. We have telephones and stuff. They didn’t have that before. But it’s the same world I live in, as the world of old days. Nicholas Flamel and his wife were under this same sun as I walk under. Funny. History. This is the same sun as the builders of the pyramids in Egypt walked under too. Mighty sun. The mighty animadigital fire. It has a digital touch to it, this cosmos. The digital eternity, one could call it. Here I could be forever. It is warm and welcoming, this cosmos. Comfy so to say. The cosmos loves us.

I think I have been a waiter in ancient Egypt, long ago. I remember how we used to walk. Straight legs like the birds. I

remember flirting with the women on my way to deliver wine on silver trays. Or is that just a dream? Something from my imagination? I remember Sissy Cogan as well. I remember things. Metempsychosis? In the thunderstorm out on the pasture, I touched wet Earth and said: “I have been here before.” Have I? It sure feels so sometimes. Wow, imagine all the love and suffering that has gone into me sitting here. All the people of the past. I feel connected to all the humans of the past. My friends. Literally my mothers and fathers. Yes, I shall open my heart, for even in the old times, when the stars glimmered in the eyes of our ancestors, the world was alive. I am part of the great story. But no one told me that when I was a kid. I had to figure that out myself.

He shuts his eyes and sends his love back and forth through the ages.

I wonder about the future. These times around people keep saying that we are fucked. People keep saying we’re doomed. I don’t believe it. Too much love everywhere. Sad though, all the pain and bad things. I am a very lucky man. How come I am so lucky? So many questions. Life is strange. Who am I? What am I?

I am fucking Felix born from the sun. No. I am Spiros, born from the sun.

I’d like to go to a pub in Dublin some day and sit where James Joyce sat. Drink a pint of dark beer. James too walked under the same sun as I do. Who said it, that Joyce had the ticket in his mouth? Strange that phone call I got from him and Nora during my chocolate psychosis there around midsummer. I remember it clearly.

O my God then it’s true! cried Nora in tears in the phone when she heard my voice. What did she mean? Was she discovering what I was discovering on the other end? But of course it’s impossible that I spoke to her and James. They have been dead for a long long time. Or is it really impossible? And just after the phone call that strange photograph appeared, the photo of them leaving the world with a suitcase along a dusty country road, Nora sitting in a baby carriage even though she was in her thirties, haha, with James’ round glasses on so folks

can recognise them when they’re seemingly dead, and James himself in mirror-shades looking like he came from 2o1o, with a smile in the corner of his mouth and his coat casually thrown over his shoulder. The hidden world. And above the picture was written Another couple is granted sunglasses and endless vacation just like he used to say things like that which somehow an open mind can understand.

―O and why 11.32? asked I later when me and Plurabelle had found each other after the long long walk home, when I had found my Plurabelle again, my sweet sweet Ana Livia, and she had found me, her manlion.

―42, she answered, with that secretive glimt in her voice. ―11:22, said I. 22. 32. 42. Why 32? ―Because they were on the line, said my wondrous sweet Plurabelle.

James had the ticket in his mouth because he laughed and smiled, I think. For one thing, I mean. Even on his death mask there is a smile on his lips if I remember correctly. All you really need is a smile. And to laugh with life. Be a prism. Be happy.

My eyes are prisms too. Like diamonds. My irises are revolving galaxies. I am a cosmic being of some sort. They did not say that when I grew up, that I am cosmic. They said I was from this and that country and from this and that town and was part of this and that century and was some kind of citizen.8 Fuck centuries, fuck countries, there is no such thing. I still walk under the Egyptian moon. I live in the city of no addresses. Home sweet home. My chryssanthial palace world.

And I will never go back to the modern world. Rather, I am going to vanish.

Bye, Man, I am leaving. I remember old Crete. A few thousand years ago. What a great time we had. Lots of wine and grapes. You could walk with a throbbing erection under your gown there and nobody cared. Imagine if magic were a larger part of our culture. What a wonderful world we would live in. Harmony. I remember the laughs on Crete. On the courtyard we dance, sweet summer sweat.

8 If you are not a shaman you are some kind of citizen. Hahahae!

Young sexy boys and girls. And older ones too of course! Always love them sexy older women.

I remember especially the stone floors against my feet. Yes, old Crete.

We had no telephones back then. And no computers. Strange, technology. Everything is strange.

Fuck this culture, the 21st century. What the fuck is this bullshit? Count me out. I am leaving. I can’t believe the stupidity of humanity. Like brother Adam says: the suppression of the gentle people from the beginning of time. We are a lot of good people on this planet though. Some people suck though. Bad taste, I like to call it. They don’t have good taste, some people. Too many people with bad taste on this planet. Poor bastards who can’t see that a flake of snow is a diamond. No respect either. Unintelligent idiots. The secret hour doesn’t let those people touch it. And they don’t know what the shaman means when she says: Powerful, magical, evil. That is a kind of code that those people cannot understand.

The Earth likes its witches. Helps them on their way. Some people don’t know they can create their own universes. Myowndreamland. The door is open. Create your own road show. We; the witches, the shamans. May you see us dancing at the shores of dreams.

Opens head; sounds of circus music plays. Keywords Sissy spoke of. Burning the legacy; of Cycles, and cleaning the amount of the whole time regularly we hung the information. Getting out of those circular patterns of thought, or the repetition of illusions, that keeps one in the trap. Destroy all rational thought. Be or of say it or you said they actually structurally flaw it to a halt. Thought magic. (Don’t mention our plan or our show’s a failure!) I am Mr Clyde, master lock picker of the imagination, master hacker auf hyperspace, and with my wives Bonny Cogan and Wintjabernatrice I cooperate with the elves and angels to crack the door of wonderland open. I am a master criminal and I feel great! (We are going to do something.)

Welcome to the circus. We have been awaiting your arrival. I remember when I was 17 and I walked around with flowers tied into my long hair and an old man came up to me and said: Welcome to the party.

Life: the great party. Go deeper where many rivers are named. There is another door. There lies the great dreamadoory that offers free passage. Be born with From Outside. Have ye forgotten ye are a god?

―I got a little place nearby, wanna go? Spiros hears the alien voice say.

He calls his mother. He has decided to leave the century once and for all.

―I’m going to a place nearby, gotta go, Spiros says and hangs up the phone.

―Wait! Where to!? shouts Christine. But Spiros is gone. ―Just watch, just watch what we’ll do, Spiros whispers smiling and takes a sip of spice.

Sissy and Wintja sing:

Cross this ocean

Following me following you

Your arms, your kiss, your hands

Your mad, your face, your lips

―I weave for us the marvellous web. Hear me struggling to reach you.

wished to see straight through, from the other side. It worked. Spiros walks under the Egyptian sun in the Crowinshield Garden, amongst the roses. A little bee comes buzzing and sits down on his head. It pisses on him a little stripe of piss. Friend of the bees, me. Same family tree too: the cosmos. We both come from The Fountain of the Lovers. Where the wine comes from. The wine! Drink of the purest, as Rumi said. All wine will make you high, drink of the purest nectar. I

Spiros takes the red rose that is stuck in his breast pocket and places it amongst the white roses in front of him. He looks at the shimmering crystalline flower crowns and thinks of Sissy.

Lucky we are thus far away That we can both make fun of dustance

He hears voices: ―Your Mother would be happy. My own Son will divide the kingdom. He will open the doors of time and walk through the violet doorway into hyperspace, out of profane history.

Do it. She will be wilds. Spiros gathers dry white rose petals from the ground and puts them in his inner pocket, then sits down by a table next to the rosebushes and writes, with his partially dead hand and his fully alive head, in his diary:

H

ere I am again in the waters of moonsense where poetry is free to play up all nights riddling magical meaning deeper than a mirror against a mirror, severing my head to stay with love on a journey with myth and the feminine teaser who slips from half asleep her woman’s curves to seduce the guards of linearity to have an affair with her majesty. Lunacy? Chiller waves? More firewood under the lovers’ pot!

Transistoryness? Radiosyncromatics? Syntax syntactical? Dreamradiophone? It can’t be! It must be!

Yesterday I bathed in the silver river with the moon big and grey and close enough that I could touch it with my fingers. The young Springmoon she’s beaming love indeed! And I felt I had found it: the Alchymical Palace, the Summerday world, the summerdreamday, the secret garden. And here I sit now, in the world after time. The sun and moon are with us all, beaming love for us!

I shall rise from the ashes of modernity, like good old Felix boy did.

Don't you believe enough?

Spiros slams his hand on the table in laughter. ―Want to be Phoenixed? Come and be parked! He closes the diary, pressing a few rose petals within its pages, and wraps it in its red silk cover. Happily he begins to make his way to the sea.

The sea, the pool, where the river comes out. At the end of the river lies a world so magical it cannot be imagined from here. I am making my way into it, slowly but steadily.

Slowly, but steadily. In to the world I have no name for. The world with the happy kiss. Everything means something in that first hall, where one is welcomed. Layer upon layer of strange alchemical meaning. The rose, the river, the bird that flies away from the grave, the sun and the moon and the old sundial. It looks like your ordinary palace, but then you begin to notice the kinks: the wet naked roses, the blood red wine, the rattles made of dead bone, death and life and love in a love scene in public on centre stage, the deep church music and the smell of sex and incense. Someone has gone off the far end, you think. And then another veil; a curtain in the dark diamondstarry sky. Divinely silly and deep. Behind it you find the happy summer garden where young Byzantine women and men walk around naked, swooning in love on the green grass, intelligent birds singing around them, dragonflies like small helicopters filming the area in 3D: you flow into it like a dream. And biology in love with technology creating toys for the young gods to play with. Faberge can be done grand scale. You can make an environment with it. It’s awe-inspiring,

really. If only I had a name for it, this world. The crystalline palace. Everything is crystalline. Faberge. A whole world like a Faberge egg.

Spiros takes off his sandals and lets the cold water of the sea soothe his tired feet.

We have all bathed in this water. Wonder what the people of old times thought of water. It is unexplainable; some kind of liquid. Liquid light. Like the purest mercury. Rumi bathed in this water. And now I am here, only a few generations after him. Must have been a great guy that Rumi. He is my father in a way, or could be. I am the great great great great great grandson of the great Jelaluddin Rumi.

He smiles. I am in a magical world after all. It’s just that the magic is hidden behind a veil of modern stuff. Stuff. Newspapers. Washing powder. Commercials. Stuff. Things no Grecian god would create.

I shall never go back to the 21st century. Some people never go insane. What boring lives they must live. Bukowski, if I remember correctly. Must have been a good guy that Bukowski too. I live in the same world as him. Wonder what he was like.

A smile shoots across his face and he begins to recite to himself a poem of Rumi’s:

They’re lovers again: Sugar dissolving into milk. Day and night, no difference. The sun is the moon: An amalgam. Their gold and silver melt together. This is the season when the dead branch and the green branch are the same branch.

You must marry your soul. That wedding is the way.9

In silence he looks out at the horizon. Best poem ever, that poem. I am glad I stumbled upon it. It is part of my map out of the century. A splendid shard of mirrored magic, sharp enough to cut through the prison. It’s all part of the whole, holographically. That’s what that book is, Fit to Talk a Dream. The only book you

9 Jelaluddin Rumi, 13th century.

need. You can even use it as a pillow. Contains the entire universe. Doorways out of town on every glance you cast its pages. And you can lay anything upon it to be about whatever. Word magic.

The cracked looking glass. Joyce knew. That’s why I spoke to him on the phone that day, Joyce. The day he and Nora called me. It was on Midsummer eve. Maybe he and Nora made it through the violet doorway.

She knocks on the door. A face appears in the shattered window. ―The door is already open. She enters. ―Yes? This? Yes. This. Here. The end. ―Yes, I’ll take this one.

Optional timeouts. Shut your eyes and see the. Yes darling, it works like that.

Spiros brings forth a pen and sits down looking out over the sea. A scattered dream. Like a memory I can’t really grasp hold of. I want to line the pieces up. Both mine and yours. PS: Dreaming of you. The spicy sharp lines of your face shape everything in your path.

I can foresee me in the future sitting by a desk having written myself back to the moment I sat by that desk writing about how I wrote myself to that desk, and there I am, back, in the first moments of eternity with the pen in my hand having written myself back to. But when did I write myself into the fabric? From whence did I come? Rumors abound that I was born from my own forehead. Yet other songs in the wind say I was born through falling in love; and that you Sissy, my dear, were born through falling for me― we dreamed each other into being. A paradox.

I sense, more and more, that I really am imbedded in something very like narrative. And everything I add to the fabric stretches it. And I sense― it wants to go somewhere.

Going toward a bright white bed there was a. My skin encountered clean white linen as I woke up. And there really was a rocks audios egg around the aux of the rock of the rocs aux head. That’s for sure. That we know. But what of the destination?

―It’s kind of like two o’clocks, if you know what I mean, Spiros says to no one in particular and laughs. I’m bluffing a jetlag here, if you get my hint. I mean it’s not like we have yet been able to say what it means to fake your death and wake up dreaming. Or have we? Sissy, Sissy of the wind, speak to me!

Sissy Sissy of the fruit of the aeon arising, wherein he is born. ―Love, we had not left the room. Don’t tell me I have just added to the fabric of the narrative that the head is the destination, Spiros thinks. For that just plainly doesn’t make sense. But yes, it must have been love. Your kiss made death melt away into the narrative as the head we had not added.

First kiss of the destination. My death has been tied up into the wind, into the echo of salvia divinorum back to the river where we met. Where the river meets the. I wave back and add to the fabric of the narrative as an immaculate conception.

―Butterfly! exclaims Spiros and shakes himself out of his thoughts.

Suddenly, on the shore, kicking sand, comes Butterfly walking. Her eyes burn deeply and the contours of her face make the landscape look different to Spiros.

―Spiros, she says. ―And what are you walking around thinking of? Spiros says. Butterfly looks at him seriously; ―Just… We must be everything that humans have ever been, she says.

―And what is the next step then? ―The next step, says Butterfly, is to announce that we are in a situation of life threatening danger, and to put ourselves in security with Mother Earth. We must save the planet in some kind of action. We must become kamikaze pilots of the Earth.

She brings forth a cigarette and puts it in her mouth. Lights it, not smiling.

―And what are you doing? she asks. ―I’m in the mid die, says Spiros. I have found a magical world, and am finding my hidden identity. I am leaving, Butterfly. I will never come back.

―The master is busy dying! Butterfly exclaims joyously.

Whispered words are heard by the great obelisk at Palace Hill, not far from the Crowinshield Garden. An envelope is thrown out like trash through a window nearby. A wristwatch, stopped at the hour of 11:11, changes owner on Clocksmith Alley. Two hundred black birds circle above the Palace. Near the Palace we find Rose Wakins and Nykkel Humphry and Adam in front of a rigged laptop.

―This is the coming of the golden dawn, Adam says into a mobile phone set to stream live into radio channels across the Earth. The time where the realization of man’s Godhead will be fulfilled. The world will transform as we break out of the trance of artificial existence.

―Give me news, give me news, says Rose. A newsboy hands out the day’s issue of Timescity Express. Rose takes a copy and puts it in her handbag.

―The history-dream, continues Adam. We call it ‘the poisoning’. And around the world we go in a tea daze.

Rose looks at Nykkel Humphry’s curly hair and his handsome happy face.

―You look splendid in those new shades, she says. ―My magic shades? Thank you, says Nykkel. He adjusts them on his nose. ―Here, now, look, he says and attends the screen of the computer.

Up on the screen comes a message:

NON-LOCAL ENTITIES CLEARED MANYWORLDS SYNCHRONIZED HIGHS PURGED AND INFECTED VERIFYING BUILD ENVIRONMENT (synchronology rehash complete)

―Right on time, says Rose. Nykkel lays his hand on the old sundial next to the laptop. ―The oldest joke in the book, Nykkel says and smiles. On time.

She opens the day’s issue of Timescity Express and reads, over a cup of tea, the article that her husband has written and which has been placed, with care, next to an ad selling beds:

Rarely is it spoken of, but more often than some might think. Amongst the group of artists known as The Best in Bed and The Should Be Dead (but aren't) it goes under the name the poisoning. It is a phenomena so remarkable that it is rarely touched upon outside alchemical circles, perhaps one of the reason being it seems to partly dwell on the other side of death. Opinions differ as to what the poisoning is, but what is generally said is that everyone is always under the influence of it, which is considered part of its intrinsic nature. The poisoning can be seen to be connected to dream in some way, both in that it operates in the logic of dream, and that it has no material substance (or perhaps mind and substance is the same thing). When its logic gets trapped in a dead end occurrences in what is often called ‘the material world’ can be observed. Under certain circumstances these occurrences can be rather dramatic, which often gives rise to a feeling that there is something eerie about reality. Somehow the poisoning is also connected to time. It has been remarked amongst The Best in Bed that under certain circumstances the space of hundreds of years ago, or more, or less, can intersect present space, as though the timebarrier between them temporarily has collapsed. And one of the signs of this (not the only but one of them), it has been remarked, is when there is a luminous aureole around the flame of a candle.

Somehow the poisoning connects certain or all events through time and space. There is a web, sometimes called the superweb, more complex than we seem to have the power to envision, and the

poisoning is humanity within this web. The poisoning is humanity in Eternity. The coming weeks we shall have a series of articles about this phenomena. Stay tuned.

Butterfly brings up a paper from her purse and begins to read out loud from it:

―O Goddess, Thou shineth in the darkness of our Deception. Our thoughts sing to the joy of Thy coming. Now that we have decided to leave Thy body in search of what sent Thee unto us shall we even so ever return and celebrate the feast of Thy kindness and compassion that has now expelled us to the return. We have set out a place where we shall gratify Thy originator with the fruit of our labor: self awareness. Spiros, one of the bravest servants of The Fallout, possesses an invention on which excellence I dare swear my whole moment in time. O Goddess, we sacrifice ourselves. Accept our sacrament. We shall turn on the world in Thy honor. And Thou shallt see. Thy own grace and loveliness.

She puts down her hand in the purse again and brings up another piece of paper.

―I have conceived a play for the return, like our dear old Malachi Mulligan, she says and hands the paper to Spiros. Here is the list of characters.

Spiros reads what is scribbled upon it:

Barbapappa & Barbamamma (rosy pink blobs who can change form into anything she desires)

Peppe Fågel (a master hacker) Tuss (an Egyptian witch) Diamondella & Storiella (two master criminals) Spiros the Yummy Satan (an alchemical stuntman)

Butterfly waits until she sees that Spiros has read the list through, then says:

―The story revolves around a centre plot of alchemical transformation and the coming into bloom of the alchemical

summerflower by the rosy guidance of the Rose. You, Spiris, are naturally yourself, the stuntman who travels further and further into the mysterious synthesis.

―Haha. What’s the name of the play? asks Spiros. Butterfly puts her hand down again in her purse and brings forth yet another slip of paper. She hands it to Spiros who looks at it carefully with a big smile:

The Unwrapping of the Mummy

or The Blooming of the Alchemical Summerflower

or The Massive Tactic

(The end of the synthesis and the entry of heaven into history.)

by Butterfly

Spiros laughs. ―The unwrapping of the mummy… I love it! Let death be unravelled, he says.

―The greatest of the mysteries shall be disclosed, says Butterfly and puffs on her cigarette. And we shall have our Queendom, you be sure. The blooming shall bloom. You know, we are all part of this strange alchemical blooming.

―I call it the Rosalixion, says Spiros quietly. The whole thing. Butterfly nods. She proceeds to ask Spiros if he wants to hear more of what she has written and Spiros says of course and she begins again to read aloud from one of the papers:

―Future Rose and Star we salute Thee; Thy angels approach our adherent state of taking delivery; as dust they dispatch from Thee, as flashing dust, and reach us, and they are our deliverance. By our, I mean: The interstellar force of release that is the transformational One within all the gifts of the Galaxies. Mother of existence, in real time we are born and in real time we settle, from time to time; in real time we worship Thee. Our words transpire in worship of Thee, for our worship is rhythm and truth. Existence is a necklace with which we adorn Thy precious neck,

pulsating with perpetual kindness; existence is a reflection of the immense splendor and love of Thy conscious spirit.

Butterfly looks at Spiros. ―O and Spiros, she says. ―Yes? ―I have thought of another name for the play as well. The Crime of the Dove & the Crossador.

A quick dove flies by. Spiros’ eyes turn deep, as though he suddenly remembers something.

―The infection, says Sissy and hands over the gem. It has begun. A silent nod. ―May the rosy dream interblend with reality.

Butterfly rises and cracks another beer, takes a sip and toasts the starry sky and toasts Spiros. Stately like the Aeon she begins to speak:

―I am a singularity as a totality, but what of our substrate? This fruit will fall and rot, but the tree is the one who grew and experienced me. The fruit dies every second, but realize the tree and you will become eternal life. Inward, a point of existence twisted into singularity, yet no one realizes the starting point: our one virginal womb, the dwelling place of God.

She lights a joint and invites Spiros to play out a little scene from the movie The Wonderland Experience.

―It’s just a matter of time now, she says an puffs. ―Time? How much time would that be? says Spiros. ―O about 6 billion years. ―It’s not an immediate concern for us then. Butterfly passes the joint. ―I love that movie, says Spiros. ―Loosin’ my marbles! Yes sir! ―Fuck. The underlying principle… ―Chaosamari born? The conductor of the universal orchestra?

―This all fits too well, Spiros says and inhales. Everything is about the same thing. What the fuck is happening?

―I know you are so young, teases Butterfly. But I can show you something about us women that I’m sure you’ve never known.

―I just write with you while I read, says Kinch. A twisted ancient magic. The scrivener.

―Kinch, the knifeblade, says Spiros. Yes. It is alive, we must remember, not static. It moves, it is the ancient snake moving.

―Fingers of forethought twist through the damp dark soil run through and ready for light. Everything is in place. The shaky leaper, the language of the afterlife, the alchemical victory has taken place. Perhaps only in the laboratory of the transparent, yet it will be reiterated, repeated, reemphasized.

Kinch fumbles around looking for an incinerator vessel. ―Spiros, I am collecting conversations from the court of the Queen, he says. Tonsersoplat.

―Tonseroplat? wonders Spiros. ―Yes. It is a being of hyperspace who holds you in high regard. It's also an anagram of Neat Plot Ros, and other remarkable anagrams.

―I see. Spiros sees through the veil that lies over the visible world, into the Palace. It shimmers crystalline and chryssanthially; the Palace, the Queendom, the world under the veil. It is spring there. Kinch grabs the wire labeled Time.

―This wire can be cut, says Kinch. ―Cut it. ―All rivers flow from here. Oops wrong wire. All rivers flow to here.

Spiros bows. They rant off about time for a while, coming to no clear conclusion, but hinting at the notion that what time is is how long it takes for you to understand that you are dreaming. Kinch soon births a universe within the Rosalixion.

―It is as if the modern world veils the Queendom, says Spiros.

―It as if the Queen has a fine veil draped over her illustrious figure that we have come to call the modern world, Kinch counters.

―Good point, smiles Spiros. ―Veils are very flimsy! Yet they do not show the face! She is so radiant! Once you have seen her…

Alone with her, beckoning “Come nearer, you are mine but you are too far away yet, can't you see my eyes, calling? Do you have any other name than the one I call you with my crystalline eyes, ruby set in ivory set in ebony?”

―I am sitting in a hallucination, I see that now, says Spiros. Kinch enters a trance. ―And we are wanted in the palace, continues Spiros. ―The palace doors are wide open to me, says Kinch. ―Ah, says Spiros. For me the veil of what I call the modern world mixes with the palace so splendid. It moves. It shimmers on every surface; both the palace and the modern world.

―A veil is a veil, says Kinch. She is dressed for the occasion. ―The veil need not be there, says Spiros. Spiros mumbles, to the Queen: ―I am your whore. ―I found out tonight she doesn’t always like to hear that, says Kinch.

―O, says Spiros and laughs. Why doesn't she like to hear that?

―Sometimes it is made apparent how hard you have worked and concentrated in order to stand in her palace, says Kinch.

―O, says Spiros and nods thoughtfully.

―You know what you are like, Sissy? You are like sugardusty sugar, petals, sugardusty petals.

Spiros sighs. ―You’re like…you are like a dream. That makes sense, doesn’t it?

Sighs. Giggles. ―I need to go back a few days, says Spiros. I went too quick. ―That can happen in Egyptian sexgoddess orgies.

―Spiros, the body you are in, the mind you explore...these are foggy memories of the world we are waking to, says Kinch eagerly. We see the room before we are in it. We remember the dream of the Palace.

ear, I hope you can read all the way through my clodes, and our rather shifty way of speaking. How is the delivery of the letter going, my postman in the Queendom of the gods? D

I was lying in bed when I heard: roar! And I thought this can’t be right. Words from the other side of the wall it was. I knew directly that it was you, my manlion Spiris. I woke up you know on the bed and you were suddenly gone. And a strange note lay on the table:

In the like abandoned world we play

The world the brew has taken me to feels like the natural radiance of my own soul and mind: it is deluciously delicious.10 And I know you are here somewhere, and feel the same. It is to be navigated like a story in a way, this world; things represent things in many dimensions at once, etcetera. It is damned difficult to navigate, yet it’s possible, and I feel I’m getting a hold of it now. You just got to follow the flow and it works, and trust! Trust in yourself! Trust in the angels! Trust in the magic! Trust!

I am in the bedroom at the moment, writing you this little message. I have found a trail of white rose petals in the stairway; we might have missed each other by an inch in time there.

10 Tipsily ipsily love forever (I’ll catch you dreaming, honey.)

I think one can tune in with the flames of candles, I call it candlelight tuning.

Just keep dreaming of me and we will find each other soon. The river’s end doesn’t seem to be a place to meet as we have already gone through that end from one perspective. So I say we meet in bed.

From the point of fun, the angels are laughing to arrive us and we are on all as much you can feel we be fablebodied. Now I must paint my nails. White or red? Hmm. Tricky. Rodamco. Rose Queen Cogan. I put forth a Queen. You put a King. You won.

Your Queen, xxx

Engineering. Tomb. Blood. Countdown. Outer door. Bio scan. Spiros lies on the bed. It is day but it feels like night. He can feel people unwrapping cloth from around his body in another time; the bed sheet around him; cloth; the bed sheet; the multidimensional unwrapping of the mummy. Movie music he hears. Gently they unwrap the cloth, gently with gentle hands. Engineering.

Wintjabernatrice stands looking at him in a white dress, waiting patiently.

―That sounds Egyptian. Issi. ―Yes. I am in search of my wifey. Spiros wakes up, on a bed in the little adobe house outside Old Town. He hears the streaming water of the river: dark black stream. He rises to his feet smiling big, and looks around. The moon lays big and yellow by the horizon. The Egyptian moon. The Cretan moon. I am under it still.

On the table stands a decanter with redpurple wine, glimmering in the candlelight. He looks into the flame of the candle and sees a big like aurora radiating around it.

―It’s close now, he whispers to himself. On the old wooden table lies a letter with a pen on it. He picks it up. It is from Sissy. He laughs big and picks up the wine

decanter and kisses it; pours himself a glass. He takes the letter and sits down by the tree in the centre of the room and reads:

Dear, We made it. We are on the new land. Venturing deeper where many rivers are named we made it into the new world. We vanished into storyland shall we say? I think our decisions shape this world so pick and grin. Last I saw of you we were in bed. I fell asleep, and when I woke up you were gone. Things had suddenly changed, subtly. It took me a while to understand what had happened. It was the wine! Our brew! It worked! My angel you. I love you! We must learn to navigate this new world. I’m not yet sure how to do it, but I’m slowly learning. Are you? I have been by the river, have not found you there. I went to the rosebushes too and did not find you there either. Maybe we should try to meet in bed.

PS: You’re the sweetest my baby my love for all time. Thank the whispering wind for making you mine.

Your Queen

The house is no longer a ruin, Spiros notices. The walls are intact and so is the roof. It looks like a house full of life: there are breadcrumbs on the table and the front door is open, there is a heap of glowing coal in the centre fireplace. Spiros feels all buzzy― that feeling like when you wake up after intense dreams. He looks around. No sign of Sissy.

There is a world in the book on the pillow, touched by his hand. It is his book, their book, our book, and is written into every corner of eternity tied up.

―We’re going to a place nearby, he whispers and looks in direction of the Rosy Dawn. Wanna come?

Popp.

In search of the riddled beginning he sits down and looks out the window. The room he is in is like the center of eternity, indeed he feels it is, time interplaying and merging in ways he cannot explain to himself but that are utterly clear. He makes little comments to himself as he goes down the river of the story. To where, to what am I heading? That’s her, that bird there. Sissy is looking in on me. Sissy Sissy of the beginning. I wonder what would happen if all symbolisms would vanish from my mind. He hears Sissy speak:

―Our disguise is perfect.

Spiros rises from the bed and wraps the bed sheet around his waist, walks up to the computer.

―What are your orders my Queen? he says. ―Unify descending curricular and wait for the team to gather. ―How long am I supposed to be here? ―Until further notice. Spiros lights a cigarette. ―Landing-attempt four initiated. ―Slower this time, says Spiros. Red Lab initiated? ―Red Lab initiated. Connected to all devices. ―Playlist? ―Initiating playlist. ―Timelock? ―Timelock on. Spiros waits, standing arms crossed and hawkeyed like a bodyguard by the computer in the candlelit space of the apartment.

―How’s it going? ―I’m soon at junction Rose Garden, says Spiros. No, wait, I see the gate, through history. I’m there.

―There is a letter for you by the bed statue. Spiros bows. ―Have you told anyone?

―Not a soul outside the team, says Spiros. Petals blow from the rosebushes to the statue where he stands. The statue is white marble, portraying in correct proportions a bed covered in a large bed sheet on which two woman and a young man lay swooning in the nude, intoxicated, drinking the secret wine under the sky. Spiros walks up to the statue and takes the letter that lies on the bed into his hands. He sits down on the bed and reads:

he winds were blowing to tale’s Endwhere. This is our ritual, my dear sipper to the other side. All seegrooves are spaced out and distilled. We have much to exchange, my love, sir traveler. Take me in your hand and spell me through the ages. T

Spiros bows again. ―The transforming magic of that first glance of our love. There will be strings of pearls in dreams around their necks. There will be a light in the garden; the oldest of lights, light on the land at the gate, until the light is the land of the oldest. By the river the traveler will see a glimmer of what lies ahead, and as the gate at the end is approached, voices will whisper from the future. There is your first passage from this timestream, and you will remember again from wherest you come.

He reads on:

W

aste my summer wine. Waste my summer rhyme. I hear you on the other side of the wall of time. We are in the same room. Does the fragrance remain? We wrote ourselves, you remember yet? I remember. It has not happened yet. The This Side Undertaking you called it when I phoned you in the autumn of history, when you did your vast exit. We broke through to ourselves with the news.

We are ghosts of a certain kind, one could say. When we fell in love something happened. And now we are in our seepassage forward, seeping in to the artifice of eternity. I feel your lips against me as I sit

here in the little adobe house by the dark black river. I have planted a seed at the center of the house on the earthfloor. It will bring me fruits for flight to you. The smoke-phone works.

Navigate through the rosy dream that we may find each other again!11

Your daisy

Wine is spilled on the letter, still wet. Spiros licks the wine and kisses the text of the letter. The marble statue has changed when

11 You have nice yum plumyums. O Queens of mine I come big back now I remember. I feel your air already breathe on me. The rosy dawn, it is merging. I feel rosylight chrissysting dawnly. The rosy intersection of all times. I am waking up. Leap through time. And I see it again, when we sat by archlight, brewing Our Famous Unobtainable Brand, our spice. Tell me your dreams. Am I in them? Mmm my sweet deadly thespians, we are through. We can fly! We can fly! When can warm sleep reach across a changeover? And how does warm semisleep poetry vanish into the specified ceremony/event? I’m here writing you in wet dreamery, remember? you said. I shall vanish. I will tell you of my whereabouts in a book of love. We went in, through, out. Yes, it is time to wake the mummy up. He is young and smells of flowers, and his two wives are waiting for him. Daeth and Livy and the Alien, the condensed body or Eros, creating a new existence for themselves by living out their most intricate fantasy turned real, their rosalix event; the sweetest love story, the sweetest dream turned real. Through the grass we pass. Flimmering flames of yellow light against the pink wallish listening to the connection so besides enjoying sportive pastimes yflown we all yode circean. But now we are arriving. We deepended the rememory all spread out as we sailed we wourld, you sweet evil. Played our cards like that― we played them perfectly. And you say I’m evil! Muah! Won’t wate you soft lips till you come I just have to kiss you, try and stop me! Muuah! Only a few hours ago hahaha they blew! Here me? I herehear you aboutopuff the plastic. More more more for the brain love I will eat you! Scarred you were from hereing those words in the mirror, I will kiss your scared and bite the neck of the whateverend, feel my wet lips or still you only see my eyelips twinking kisses from a farly nearly touching pount? The Twin King, Doubleworld Spiros. Wridden challenge for masculine courage of performance, let me tell you, my most deard of mine, my thlesbian in a manlions body, angel of mine my deadest king my dear my deadest love! Playing with death, Ooo, scary. The engineers of personal history. Boo! The radio insect, see her? My darling deadling angel. Hear me now? Plumyum you got nice bumyums. And that white dress on. White is the fabric, thin. Yes. Rip it tonight baby. Rosy dawn soon here to break. See my yade eyes? One thing intact. Rest in pieces my love. I’ll spread out a little more. Mmm I grave you so deeply now, O how I crave you! Come come come! The birthbirth. Your is to be born. Sunpolished sunling of the victoryridden summor, victoryus peach, I see your face in the summerdaydream. Butterfly wings and no wonder she had a white dress that day. Shapeshifter she! Uses it often now. Always clean too, even in a thunderstorm. Tounguolkraft? The alchemical procedure is in its finishing stages. I demand your return. And when Bianca the white dove gave me the diamond look. And the tuss tuss tuss, sshh! You were back from my fumeral, perfumed in a scent towarding me from my entire life in all directions. Yes dear that was it. Taste my apple? The forbidden nipple. Difficult to tell whose voice is who sometimes. Wintjbearnatrice and Sissy and Spiros: the criminals of physics, death and life. Unwrapping the mummy now. Get ready for the landing. When you find your way back I’ll be waiting here. Love you. Love you. Love you. Secrets intact. Our dream telepath posts, but don’t tell anyone!

he looks at it again; one of the women are gone and there is a bird on the bed. He breathes; one deep long breath.

He gathers a few dry rose petals from the bed, crushes them and puts them in his pipe, lights a match and fires up. Warm semi-sleep surrounds him.

Sissy tatters around in the little adobe house by the river, late at night. She looks at the rosy diamond on the ring on her finger and smiles. It glimmers, node of the rose. She sits down by the table and begins to draw a little map. Soon it is finished and she looks at her creation with excitement. A gravestone there to the left, a silver thread attached to it,

attached to the land and to the centre of the cranium. She turns and twists the drawing. Looks like a person with mouth wide open. Perfect. She looks into the flame of a candle and says, eyes burning:

―Winded the vocal dances with the team over the trap. In breeze a little slip of paper comes toward her. She picks it up and reads:

We have defined the City of the Dead. May the blessing of the Bomb almighty, from the fellowship of

The Holy Fallout, descend on us all.

piros does some simple mathematical calculations. He is by no means a master of simple algebra, but he does find that both his present telephone number and the telephone number that followed his family for his entire childhood, when calculated in a certain way, equals 216. He fires up something to smoke and sits down to ponder this new discovery. S

Suddenly as he sits there his mobile phone makes a strange noise, then starts to blink. Thinking that someone is calling him Spiros picks it up and answers. The buttons, however, do not work, and instead the phone just blinks a blue light with regular intervals and makes a strange beeping noise. About 15 times in a row it beeps, then is silent for a sef seconds, then 15 beeps again.

Half an hour later the phone is still doing its thing; 15 beeps and blinking, silence, then back to beeps and blinking. Spiros decides that this is no coincidence. He did after all just now sit and calculate his telephone numbers. Sure, might be something wrong with the phone, he thinks, but he also is aware of the intricate workings of the web of synchronicity.

Soon he decides to take a nap and lies down under the bed cover. He whispers to Sissy in hope that she can hear him, then soon floats away into sleep.

Strange dreams follow, vivid dreams, dimethylesque dreams where he meets happy talking toys and visits strange worlds. And in the end something spectacular happens. He wakes up in a large room, a hall. It has lots of pink furniture and coloured lights, fluffy pillows everywhere and, he points out to himself what a girly feeling the room has. Bianca flies by, and Spiros looks at her in amazement and deep joy. Bianca guides him through the room to a large bed that stands at the center of the large hall. He looks around, and points out to himself that “yes, I’m really here”. He touches his own body to make sure he’s there. Yes, I’m here.

(Shh! Hihihihi. Open the drawers that don't exist, drawers in the ginger cookie house. O, they don't exist, yes? Ayahuasca! Hihihihihi. O sneaky sisters! Brother mine! A witches living here, with the cats too. Whistle whistle and come to my bedroom. The purple star blinks at you, like and eye from Heaven, keep secret, dearest. Our secret is safe. Kisses to you, my lovly. Shattering sea, shy to ring Sea.)

On the bed he suddenly sees the shape of a human form under the blanket. In an instance he knows who it is, and he smiles in astonishment, feeling an outburst of bliss explode inside him. Soon the blanket starts moving and out comes a smiling face; Sissy’s face. They look at each other in a divine moment of recognition, and Spiros approaches her gently, marvelling at Sissy’s shining warm happy face, and they kiss. Spiros strokes his hand across her head.

―It’s real, he says. It’s really real… Sissy nods, still smiling, and they both melt into laughter at the shining beauty of it all.

―Now can’t you, utters Sissy. She looks into Spiros eyes and he knows exactly what she means. They had planned this long ago, for when they arrive. He kisses down her neck and down over her breast and then down down and kisses and licks her bum, the bum of the Goddess.

―It tickles! laughs Sissy. It tickles! Soon they begin to kiss violently and cast away the blanket, and make love, joyous love, and as they do, up from behind them comes Butterfly. She kisses Sissy’s bum and then puts her face in front of Spiros. They look each other in the eyes and kiss.

―I can’t believe it’s real, says Spiros. But I believe now. They make love all three of them and in their love-making they talk about it all, Sissy and Butterfly whispering secrets about the hidden plot.

―Girlieroom, says Sissy. Where we’ll meet when we are no longer many moments. Beyond the end of the river. It’s all real, Spiros.

Spiros wakes up on the bed at Leavingbye Road again. ―Holy trembling Jesus…It’s real.

hut up and kiss me. Sit down, I don't wanna hear a word come out of your mouth, why won't you listen to me? Are you hoping for something? Waiting for some sign? Waiting for some siren? So you're innocent, so jump intox the seat or get the hell out, I think you better make up your mind. Your perfect world has been upset. Your perfect world has been a set. Your perfect world has been a set-up. S

It's not a question of why and if you'll make it, it's more a question if where and how you'll she'll take it. Standing out there alone completely naked, and now the secret's been kept and now they're tainted. Com'n stand up shake it all off we're working way beyond the fallout, and you still won't listen to me! Baam! To tell you the truth where you from you dreaming? So inconveniently, hu?! Hahahahahaha! It's just that it was all for Love, you're plaid will be desidged.

Hu hu hu hu hu hu. And now she finally feels like she's coming home.

ATHERED by the pond in The Crowinshield Garden at the edge of Old Town, some of the folks of the Subnatural Rescue Team enjoy the beginnings of the Floralia, an annual feast of 69 drunken days of laughter. Colorful smoke crawls through the air like forming galaxies. Soap bubbles and balloons float around in abundance. Bees buzz around. Rosé, sangria, Spice (the redpurple wine) and fresh fruit is enjoyed. Exotic music streams from the large center speakers. G

The young sunlight sneaks into history. Adam and Mary Briscoll finish off a chapter in their unnamed opus. ADAM: (In a white toga made from bed sheets, carrying gently with his hand a large multicolored crystal chalice, its brilliance making it almost hum in the air.) Write the following, my love: I’m radioactive. I’m immune. I’m a crime… fighting… master… criminal, and I am not insane! I am a crime. I am the violet flower of the Cosmos. I see the future and the past in comic books and wine bottles, and change it all as I want it. I eat black holes for breakfast. Yes baby, I’m seven feet tall and have 666 rows of guts; I was suckled by a pterodactyl. There ya go. Now give me some more of... MARY BRISCOLL: What shall we call the chapter?

ADAM: Call it Random Phenomena. Translucent inclusions from the garden of sweet sin. Visionary plastic in jeweled discircuitry that has spellbound God. BUTTERFLY: More mushroom wine, anyone? (Adam takes a sip of wine from the chalice and sneaks a peek over at Nykkel Humphry and Yolanda.) NYKKEL HUMPHRY: (On a bed, under a canopy of leaves, in the midst of wild sex, looking down at his lover Yolanda who is pleasuring his phallus with mouth and tongue.) I can’t decide if I want to watch you fuck yourself with your fingers, or watch you suck my cock. YOLANDA: (Her voice full of her sex.) Must be confusing for you, honey. (Ffiana and Ellileilia, two women of the Red Lab team, come walking up to Adam.) ADAM: (Looks with desire at the two young women.) It’s the fruit that makes it fruity. It’s the juice that makes it juicy. The chunk. FFIANA: (To Adam.) Shut up. We need your help. ELLILIEILIA: You must decide on the winning honeysweet. FFIANA: The kitty contest. ADAM: Meow. Say it, both of you, or I won’t help you. ELLILIEILIA: (With no feeling.) Meaw. FFIANA: (Impressively catlike.) Meaaaaaw. (Ffiana and Ellileilia put down their wine glasses on the table and undress and pose.) FFIANA: Who wins? Me or Elli? ADAM: This will take time. (Adam studies them from many angles, for a long time, stroking his chin, looking, pondering, considering.) ELLILEILIA: Okay time’s out for looking. Now taste. (Adam tastes them both with gentle tongue.) FFIANA: So, who wins? ADAM: I have come to my final verdict. Elli, you are the winner. FFIANA: How come?! ADAM: She has the perfect saltiness. ELLILIEILIA: Yay! FFIANA: Darn. (She bends over, hand on the table, and pours rosé on her bum.) Lick. It is your punishment. Both of you. You devils. It was a set-up. I have been tricked. You were in alliance.

NYX: (Looks at Ffiana from under her black flapper hat.) Pour a bucket of blood on it instead. (She casts her hand before her mouth.) O my. Just look what can come out of me. ELLILEILIA: (To Nyx.) Let it all up, darling. Don’t be afraid of the depths. They will harm you not. They just want to talk. (She strokes her fingers in the rosé on Ffiana’s bum and tastes.) What wine is this? WILLIAM BURROUGHS: (With black leather mask on and Mickey Mouse ears, nods thoughtfully at Ellileilia’s remark about the depths, puffing on a pink cigarette.) Visit the interior parts of the Earth and thou shallt find the hidden stone. FFIANA: (To Ellileilia.) I'm not satisfied with the result of the kitty- contest. Let's go to Giuliano and we'll do it again. (Ffiana and Ellileilia begin to walk toward Giuliano C. Medicinia.) GIULIANO: Om det inte är de sjuttonåriga tjejerna som kommer förbi. Lite så där upprepande, lite randomly. . .Ts. Ts. Ts. FIANA: Sjutton och ett halvt. SWITCHBACK: No, what I said is, what I get is. . . SWITCHBACK: Switch back. . . SWITCHBACK. No, what I said is, what I get is. . . SWITCHBACK: Switchback. You see what I see? A way to switch back? SWITCHBACK: Switch back... (The party continues and intensifies.) KICK CHRISS: How low can you go? WILLIAM BURROUGHS: Go low. Go low. (Adam lifts his chalice with Spice toward Ellileilia.) ADAM: To Ellileilia, the girl with the loveliest pussy on the land! EVERYONE: To Ellileilia! (Confusion opens the rosy present.) STEFANDIS WAKINS: I can’t find my shades. PERNELLE FLAMEL: They’re in the sangria. ELIN: (Blond angel of seventeen years, deadly sister from Hell, appearing in short pink skirt and white T-shirt, sweat glimmering on her skin.) Anyone for tennis? (She strokes the handle of her tennis rack.) AN OSTRICH: (In a purple and red and white King’s robe, crown on her head, smoking a joint.) Every man woman and child a Tsar.

(Floating in a hat in the duck pond lies The Tabac Man, the last gentleman, a sunwinker in the sun, in the vehicle, and in your dream. He rises and speaks.) THE TABAC MAN: What do you see when you look upon me? Yes, a monkey sphinx; yourself. I have come to you to manifest your imagination, your own fantasy. It was written like this. Face it, now it is here. NICHOLAS FLAMEL: (To Mary Briscoll.) So how is the amalgamation of the threesome into the unified work coming along? SWITCHBACK: Holy SHIT. MARY BRISCOLL: It’s touched, it’s touched, by our certain kind of fire. We’re getting there. Some issues with configuration, however. Where do we want to go, you know? (Nicholas nods. A phone on the table rings. Pernelle answers. It is Spiros.) SPIROS: Hi it’s me. I had a hallucination in the woods this afternoon. I want to tell Sissy about it. Is she present? SWITCHBACK: HOLY SHIT. PERNELLE: I saw her earlier. I’ll tell her you have called. She’s not here. SPIROS: That might have been later you saw her. She is not on the audioble lifeside. PERNELLE: Yes well I’ll tell her you have phoned as soon as I see her. SPIROS: Great. Tell my brother I say hello. And everyone else who’s around. And say to them, eh, the never ending story. Just mention it. That movie, you know the film. (They hang up.) PERNELLE: (To Adam.) It was your brother, Adam. He says hello. And he says the never ending story. ADAM: Ah, Spiris! The horniest man in the empire. When will he come? PERNELLE: Was that Freudian slip intentional? ADAM: No. FFIANA: I love Spiros from behind. When I was a kid I used to walk behind him just to look at him from a certain angle. ADAM: You’re weird. FFIANA: Tell me about it.

NYX: (Daydreaming, looking at one of the carafes of sangria on the table.) Glass is such a funny thing. It’s kind of like a joke, you know? It’s here, but not really here. ELLILEILIA: Good point, Nyx. (She laughs. Turns to Adam.) Hey bro how you coming on that book, the one you’re working on? Got a good little storyline going there? Huge bunch of papers? Got a few compelling main characters, an obstacle for them to overcome? A nice little narrative there, beginning middle and end? A few twists and turns? Makes the reader feel refreshed after having read it, having learned something new? (She picks up a raspberry from the table and puts it in her mouth.) You know, the book you’ve been working on for four years. The great opus. (She chews the berry.) THE TABAC MAN: Why did he try to write an alchemical book of victory? Because he had lost his mind! (There is a drum roll.) Oh boy, oh boy! Boy I’m funny, oh boy! Why did the apple and wine ride the babe on spicy and… (Another drum roll.) Oh boy! Hahahae! Oh boy. Boom. (He disappears.) ADAM: I was told by a Goddess to do it. It’s a gate out of time. We are pollinating the area for lift-off. Passing boldly into that other world in the full glory of our passion. Ey? Don’t blame me. Blame my dark lover as Spiros would have her called. It is taking time however, we’ve been busy with living and with communicating with Saussie Love. Now she’s put a pen in our hands and cruises under it like only she can. (Adam’s and Mary’s opus in its current form is brought forth and scrutinised by a large group of people.) A VOICE: But Adam, Mary, your book is horrible. Poorly written, delirious, boring. Burn the Godforsaken script and stop wasting your time, and our time, your supposed readers. VOICES: Book-burning! Book-burning! We want to see a book- burning! ADAM: We’re not trying to write a book. We are building a devise that we shall use to shatter our ordinary mind and enable entry into home sweet home once and for all. Hyperspace, you know, the thing every single word is about. The City of the Dead. Elsingard, the city of no addresses. A city called Sphinx. Alien Loveland. Call it whatever you want, loved land goes under many

names. And of course we got our dirty little secrets, we bees of the realm. JAMES JOYCE: Did she bend over? ADAM: Who? JAMES JOYCE: The Muse. (They laugh in deep Buddha laughter.) A VOICE: 1882 to 1983, a thousand and one nights of glory and redemption, and now the present has come to you. MARY BRISCOLL: I dreamed of the work yesterday. It was finished and in print. The map was completed, and lead to Our alchemical kingdom. (She tugs at James’ arm.) Free egress and free ingress. (She feels a page of the book with gentle fingertips and looks deep into the multi-leveledness of the print, the chryssial shimmering timeshifty verse vortex, the versex.) The other side. We are there as we are here; working from both sides at once. From wikawades world we are passing…? PERNELLE FLAMEL: The This-Side Undertaking. You are being contacted. MARY BRISCOLL: We are inside these dreams to fix a few things. We are the Fixers. With P H. Phixers. (She mumbles.) The sunny union, can it be too close to the? (She takes a sip of Spice.) See, we began writing, and strange things began happening. Suddenly things began moving in and from many directions at once. It’s all part of the Rosalixion. Since we drank of the bomb. Back home. Where we were neurofucking perfect. (She mumbles, looks at the sky.) Perfect fucking chaos. Perfect. Hair like harps strings. But more. VOICES: Book-burning! We want to see a book-burning! ADAM: Yes Mary, it shall lead to Our Queendom. The magic paper trick. Surprise your audience by walking through a book page. (Looks at the criticising crowd of people.) The toil and care, whyfore feed? Lost words. You drones. Drink your blood. Have you got a measure? Victory’s bomb. (A black bird flies by with a swooshing sound.) Spies a bird. MARY: Yes. Can you hear the circus music? Look behind the veil of the illusionary worlds (She wafts incense, bells are heard.) PERNELLE FLAMEL: Come on in, the water’s fine. THE OSTRICH: (Looks at the pages of the opus with a smile.) Such a miscreant of underworld design! I love it.

STEFANDIS: When this monster book is finished the world will go kaputt. SISSY: Our book is the one single work of literature that has made most women masturbate. MARY: Spinnin’ off, cutiepie, spinnin’ off. Get ready with your amulets and mojo kits. We’re breakin’ through. (She whispers.) We need to fix a place for you to sing. Find your dream voice. (Stefandis turns toward an object in the corner of his field of vision. There he sees Captain Joy Skylark Mark Bonobo (a gay pirate captain) and The Crew coming sailing in from the split twisted curlydimensional horizon in a white galleon. Rockets rise from the deck to announce their arrival. Two hundred birds circle above the ship.) STEFANDIS: (Calls on the captain using the rotary dial telephone on the table.) Hello there captain. Stefan here. What are you up to a grandsummer day like today? CAPTAIN SKYLARK: (In Santa Claus outfit, drinking champagne from a gold Christmas bell.) Hello princess. I’m having a modest banquet of my own. In preparation for the attack. STEFANDIS: May the Saussiepan bless us all. CAPTAIN SKYLARK: We are blessed, all of us, indeed. Now if you excuse me. I have things of sexual nature to attend. STEFANDIS: Okay. Bye now. See you soon. (He rises to his feet and taps a spoon against the carafe of sangria, calling for everyone’s attention.) Time to bring the Saussiepan down into the world. (A glorious luster shimmers by.) Everyone, bring forth your most holy tricks! (Into the opulent garden come bare breasted barefoot men with white bed sheets round their waists, and women in white dresses, all walking rhythmically in straight lines at first and then spreading out into the garden. All carry golden trays. They serve redpurple wine and fresh strawberries and hand everyone a page from an unnamed book.) (Meanwhile, paper rustles in a house on Crows Alley. Mr Yates Langiner, Editor in chief of Timescity Express, is scanning through the day’s issue of Timescity and meets the underline that his wife has made in the ad-section.) THE AD:

Get yours now and receive the Rosurrection For You, 64 pages of perfectly proportioned full-figured

fashion from C’est Simone, SSG for She and Him Lover, Outlanders. Plus Mirror, framed, gathered and twisted rosette.

MR YATES LANGINER: (In two-ply Poplin suit, mumbling, catching sight of a bed advertisement.) Brazen beds. Heads. Now you can combine dream and reality. (He chuckles and turns his head toward his wife.) Darling… MRS LANGINER: Yes? Wintja. (She drops a green gem into the glass of champagne on the table and smiles and winks agreeing with her face.) Good ah? (She gives him a kiss.) Stop the gem at 11:22, your watch. THE RADIO: (Crackling.) The Symbolic Stream Generator is a software productivity aid by Unysses for their mainframe computers of the former Univuc 11oo 22oo series. MRS LANGINER: What’s the ti… (Silence.) YATES LANGINER: 11:11. (They enjoy for a while looking at various connections between the numbers, the muscles of their smiling faces twitching at revelations.) MRS LANGINER: Ha! It makes a little heart, you see? The math. (Something falls in the dining room. A crack in the wooden table makes a little sound: tic. They look around and at each other, in intervals, expectantly. A low but clear high ringing is heard from the champagne glass on the table. The room contorts a bit, breath of widening, and small popping sounds are heard like popping popp, popp, the walls, popp, popp, poppoo. A buzzing buzz, more feeling than sound, yet audible, appears, unlocatable. The feelingsound makes them both go here-we-go. A bird comes and sits down on the window sill and looks at them with big eyes. Christine’s voice appears, in perfect clarity but unlocatable.) CHRISTINE: I already told him. (Things return to normal.) MRS LANGINER: Whoops! Popp! YATES LANGINER: Popp! (They laugh.) MRS LANGINER: Toshawox a speedboata speedboata runaway Thoth Cogan’s mouth steering of. Deadhallus dear, are you ready to leave?12

12 He moved to Plomari, Icaros, at the back end of the sun.

YATES LANGINER: Toward the sun, hand in hand, we will never land. (Birdchirp and beebuzz greets them as they leave the apartment and walk out into the summerdreamday. Elfish revelations bounce around in their minds as they begin to make their way to the Crowinshield Garden.) MRS LANGINER: The ouns of me. It is certain. Immortality. What have we proved? (On the oldstone pavement on Crows Alley lies an envelope, stamped on and dirty. Mrs Langiner picks it up, opens it and reads the note within:

The disguise, we fear, is thin.

S & S & W

YATES: (Victoriously.) Who would have thought of adressante on both sides in this fashion. MRS LANGINER: Spelled Shpiros Shun of a Sun, a postman perpetually trying to deliver a letter that contains undefined good news. YATES: It was found in a garbage heap, at last? A WHISPER: Someone knows. The paper boat folded by a loveletter, floating up river. (Meanwhile, Sissy Cogan stands naked in the little adobe house by the river. Candles are lit and the fireplace is full of glowing coal. She is finishing off a passage in Fit To Talk A Dream, giggling, looking with bright glowing eyes into the near future. A white crow sits on a branch in the little Mimosa tree that grows at the centre of the house.) SISSY COGAN: (Looking at the crow.)

He is an Irifix And he knows many tricks Bring everyone you know And I will show you Haha Hihi Hoho

(She screams of excitement.) Waaaaaaaaaaa! (She runs up to the crow and kisses angel wings, then sings.) I want to live in a mushroom, or I will go nuts! (She puts on her white wedding dress and leaves the

house. Makes her way to Clocksmith Alley. She is informed that her pink Prada purse has been reported found on a bench outside the House of Nights. She hears the intro of Orbital’s song Desert Storm from a café close by and immediately sees the connection. The voice of the very Sir Nykkel Humphry, master chemist, master technician, master of disguise, master of dated electronics, master of laser, master of computer language, master phreaker, main player in the invention of oldschool 3D mapping, graffiti artist, appears on Radio Free, frequency 88.) SIR NYKKEL HUMPHRY: Everything is on fire. JENNY FUR: Let's leave, quicker than that. Vi kilar. Strömmen ut. THE SUPERVISOR: We got an awakening shaman on Elms Street. Someone fly over there and greet. JENNY FUR: Klacka snabbt. THE AWAKENING SHAMAN: Your hands behind your back and you’re writing back. (Sissy Cogan sees large chunks of multicoloured glass splinters, big as heads and dominantly a bright violet, displayed in the window of a glassblower’s workshop. Large smokeable crystals in a dreamwindow, she thinks. Molten plastic balloon party. A message in liquid purple. She reads a note nearby and decides on an address. She brings forth a small candy that she puts in her mouth and chewing she begins her return to the staircase by The Fountain of the Lovers, walking in the middle of the street.) SISSY COGAN: (Walking down the crowded shopping lane in a dress that is slit totally in front below the waist, without underwear, pubic hair shaved like a UFO surrounded in floral patterns and fractals and sharp streaming diamond rays of a centre sun, playing the blade of a huge sharp glimmering knife dangerously sensually against her neck, followed by four thousand bees and four thousand humming birds and a large shrilling eagle that breaks every window in a radius of 2o spans every shriek it lets out. To the people around her.) Molten plastic! Give me molten plastic you boring fucks! (She thinks of Spiros, gazing through the ages. Stops in the middle of the street and sings.)

I am going to Scarborough fair To see transmarrying time

(Sex marches above the ludicrous kingdom. A hero inverts dirt. Spiros cheats the honey lens. Sissy consults the asymmetric minister. Pink

lemonade, spiced by master chemists of the team, is served a little here and there across Old Town. Questions are asked in close vicinity of the Palace, and both the Langiners and Sissy stop by to attend the poet’s speech.) THE POET: (To the cheering audience.) Why won’t our team lurk opposite an inviting lust? Why won’t lips interfere throughout a subway? And what of the Goddess? Why does her peachy bum swing the palace? Why do our adjusted residents cruise? Why do they rock? (He pauses, sips of the redpurple wine.) Who cruises under every pencil? How will it all originate? Why does the tantric vegetable pornography rest upon the poetesses, poets, shamans? Should the justifiable creature gossip beside the stunt? Why does the neat fuse wed sexiness? Why won’t a magic produce the obvious code? When can the dull glass invert style? What can we say about the cracked looking glass? Does the bond retract outside the dark signal? How will sexiness score? Why can’t bliss kick an essential misprint? How can any book socket the bat? Will a fog groan throughout the verbose temperature? Can the fuse originate below the untrue weekday? Why does the hopeful procedure crack? Why won’t xxx work near code? Should the void board parade near style? Will the editorial metaphor wow the incompetence of modern civilisation? Does the object milk the sting? Can the magic fail the numeral handicap? When will the degenerate absolute trip against the approach? Can one really compute the data? Why won’t the chief theatres pale over our Subnatural Rescue Team? Why won’t the outrageous wreck of civilisation duck in the face of our move? When can the calendar react to the oily ceremony? Does a naughtier ceremony exist? Why does upstairs prevail below the mirror? Why won’t the welcome act outside the duplicate? (Forward strays. He delves in to a stray anecdote in his mind for a moment, not speaking, giggling to himself. Soon returns to the subject.) Does forward dance on top of the horrified convenience? Where is the love? Why won’t the vibe chalk under any lost etymology? How can the special wine rule the only intercourse? Has the star telephone soaped the wine per capita? Why does the rush chorus break? When can the poet’s dustbin butterflyflutter the scarce indicator? Why are all side notes part of the massive tactic? Why doth She think below the theological altogether? Why does She park every butterfly across

this vast exposed weapon? How does the inverse confine survey the suspected verse? (The century is fooled.) And Her, She. Why won’t Her image cheat? Why doth Her name kiss any pedestrian heritage? How does the rosy magic touch the sunny union? When will the unclear task kick? Should the honey and the rose doom the won factory? What really turns you on? What actually did happen to the stopper of the wine decanter? How does every editor loose under the repent saint? What about unfinished sentences? Does the ditch smell? Does the champagne champignon listen? How can the fairy gently bite the engineer’s lip? How does the wizard swamp share the optic? When will the disguised noise shift under the pen? Can the artist stray? Does the historian second the accent? When can the approving scenario peer over the lover? (An etymology hardens across a bed of newold rosy risen rosewords.) Why can’t the crown cube the awesome vagina? Why is it licked? And how will the team advance inside the applause?13

(He raises his chalice toward the audience.) Sun test me! Lovers break bread with me, and the blinding chalice! (The censor reaches in the tremendous audio without success. There are applause. The knowing motto shies away beneath the applause. The pregnant paradise shies away around a few valued sentences. The ecology copyrights and spreads a waste rumour across the sunlight. The clock twins the surprising success.) A PEDESTRIAN: I know why the fuse weds sexiness. A VOICE: (Referring to certain aspects of the poet’s speech.) Now this is the kind of stuff poets need to keep under wraps if they are to get any respect. ANOTHER VOICE: He’s not a poet. He’s an engineer and a designer. AVOICE: What to do with the police? SISSY: I have shown them Griffin and turned the police into barbie dolls while reminding them that we do smoke plastic a lot. They won't bother us anymore you be sure. ANOTHER VOICE: He’s a perfect example of the kind of people we need. We need wolves you have to hit with steel pipes to get past.

13 And why does the directing wild laugh at the accusation of this kind of reasoning?

MR LANGINER: (To Mrs Langiner.) How will the cool undies bend the geometry? JENNIFER: (Giggling.) I know I know but it’s not easy to find the location. SISSY COGAN: (Laughs at a hidden visible enemy. Stops laughing. Sharpens eyes at enemy.) Say hello to the air-pirates.14 We have landed. A VOICE: O my fucking God it’s Krint Frinrey. (Kick Chris and Krint Frinrey appear, both carrying leather suitcases containing the ultimate map of the singular universal principle, the original cause.) KICK CHRIS: The singular truth must not ever be realized completely, or lost completely. KRINT FRINREY: Dude I haven’t taken a step away from the love story. And I hear Spiros has learned to tell the tale on a string. SISSY: And DNA. THE POET: Female shemash. Needs to seep like baby. Amazon lady. We are the Aeon. MR LANGINER: (To Kick and Krint.) Can you code this? (He hands over a mobile phone.) KRINT FRINREY: I can code whatever. Give me a micro sensor, some language, a compiler, and something like the output of a fuel pump if you want, and I'll code it. (In the phone.) Find out if they shape traffic. Maybe they are blocking ports. Then you either need to change the ports or use end to end encryption – there is no way for them to track this. (The Saga, the Play, opens with a kiss across the vast expanses of Hyperspace. It is springtime, and the Lovers are dripping wet with the Bumble Bee joy of the First Love. Youth revels in its victory and shivers in the delight of thousands of tons of psilocybin running through the Goddess. The blood of her soul is tasted by the Divine Madness that gave birth to their impossible beings. More more more they all whisper in ecstasy. The divine breasts of the Sisters giveth the Milk of Everything through the impossible tangle of hyperspace, with ease, into the cybernetic eternal matrix. Mother Conception whispers about the virgin birth. The sisters kiss. Bianca, disguised as a Cupid angel, shoots a dart of love into alls their hearts. The dart is a ray of light and opens up the

14 Bust a move. It is done subtly.

Myths of the Past and all the gods wake up in the wondrous dream. Sissy sings in the waters of the living vision, and they all drift in mad joy within their sweet complexion, their impossible birth. Suns and atoms shake violently as they cannot decide whether to be atoms or electrons or suns. Black holes suck the future into the eyes of the Gods. The secret sacrament is hidden as a mushroom on the pastures of Heaven. The good Satan and his seven wives sneak into history unnoticed, from their secret abode which is spread out and impossible to locate. The Secrets are spread out across the earth, delivered by the angel messengers. Jenny Fur and Spiros spill. (Spill inte nu Jenny)

A book containing many of the secrets, is published. Spiros falls through the golden mouth of the Egyptian sarcophagus of the Eternal union. He wakes up in the secret world of Plomari. The parallel universes of the Secret intersect in one lovely story: the best story ever.

Spiros finds himself caught in the spook house by the river. The house has been completely trashed by to him invisible party people. He has found a letter and also a corset that he recognises. The smell of nail polish fills the room.) BIANCA: (Makes little noises as she twitches in a few small bird sneezes, little drops of saliva shooting off her pink beak.) Becc. Becc. Becc. (She burs herself up and fluffy she relaxes in the warmth.) Cocorico! A VOICE: O I just can’t remember well, I just can’t remember, Will! (Sissy sews together the scattered pages with thin thread.) SPIROS: I can smell your nail polish, Sissy my love. I know how to find you now. I am in the same room as you are. (He phones Adam, who answers with happy voice.) I have news. A letter. Listen. It’s from the other side, not the lifeside.15 (He begins to read the letter aloud.)

Entitle yourself. On a Lineaux Nile dynamic magnetic strip that publishes this, is always include this entry; Reply was, back. Password: Satisfactory path, gateway Anykey.16 A reply was hacked off the relevant options of people. Subject: it would be enough to just view it, this letter, for we actually

15 Audio and visual spectrum. 16 Password satisfactory path. Gateway anykey.

wrote about the other plane assuming it was the millennia’s info. The letter of the river contains the full transfusion of that data. It helps real challenge multimirror red part of could have the Rosavirtual Live17 and tape where the knot has joined odds. A manual for the foolproof junctions and another try for trust in the supervisor. Ruby, sapphire, out sometime in your script performance, not really believe that Star indeed to see The Nile Hippies are high energy? Here we come. Bzz!

The effects will be visible for all, commentary and planning input is open to all.

The easiest way. Easyeye reading, the secret to hook up with the company. We have packed using the arrangement, and by now is phone is functional sun. Large-scale thinking as the joke goes well we did build the pyramids. Here where we can talk big of the thing (someone thought this is fiction), the flowers get water and nutrients. Next time, too far! Further! Into the R Virtual Sweet, the Imaginatrix Rose! Those latest problems made changes on the next hack, from interface by the Other. We ended up in any personal question. We think this is because we had been in the messages from the lock to use under the caller Id.

The notes about time emission have been lost. We shall see if we can retrieve them for publication.

If a promise for me door please don't evade me on my way. We have the key to have figured it was more details, in our heads! If both kinds of electronic communications: brains and computers. Not to mention the Star and its computational power. I have been told you have already been on to interchange, your stare there like a beacon of the future that now is upon us. Mooneye today and you’ll see us swooning, you said. The message is there, on a page of the world, but note that Saussiepan told me a lot of the case, I asked the pages dim if you can ever know and

17 Everything is hallucination.

within minutes I started falling in which pipes and what words. Night warning. If you x then you x in longer. Stay in longer was it?

And the gods. Expected, this draws us soulshimmering artists, escape, experiences to return address then I think that’s little beyond a year, old days in the whole truth to them; and lock-pick for people and, code is this may or the old One asked about paradise techniques. We’re closing in and opening up.

ADAM: Got it. SPIROS: Bye for now. (Adam gets drunk, wanks off, brushes his teeth, eats breakfast, and goes to bed. Spiros phones Christine. She answers.) CHRISTINE: You got the letter? SPIROS: I got it. I’ve passed it on. It is duly noted and filed, can be retrieved upon special request. CHRISTINE: Great. You sent it to your brother? SPIROS: He has the info in his head like a good old shaman. CHRISTINE: Great. Must go now. Bye. SPIROS: Bye. AN ANGEL: Call us up by sun-phone any time. SPIROS: Functional. Download from future Star initiated. (A turtle with diamonds glued to its back walks across the room. Spiros orders a white limousine and journeys to Hotel Flora Plus Universe where he takes in on a luxury suite. He orders fruit and eats of it while gazing out the window at the city. He pops a bottle of champagne (Compass Rose Brut) and sips in the jacuzzi, noting a strange diamond- glimmering light pass by at two occasions as his thoughts slide toward sexual fantasies. He contemplates possible meanings of the razor and mirror that lay crossed over the bowl of lather beside him. He shaves meticulously. He dries himself with a towel on which has been embroidered R. S. C. W. Sits down naked by the computer and contacts the past via the deoxyribonucleic hyperdimension chat.) SPIROS: Boo! Ffiana are you here? FFIANA: I’m here. (Ffiana and Spiros exchange twenty-one hideously synchronised far- reaching chat lines. Anonymous chatters gasp.)

ANON 216 (an anonymous chatter): Wonders what the fuck is going on. ANON 333: (Rubs eyes.) Am I dreaming? Did you just…? This is weird, man. ANON 621: What the fuck just happened? ANON 234: This is impossible.

SPIROS: So what you say we pack our bags and walk away? FFIANA: Edit ones gained xunga launched is usage during arrival toolsopen soon is innovated. It has become easier to follow your diaryland, you seem focused. Time is now year 12o2 AM. Our of test don’t forget bookmark. Posts webtech enterprise eye- technology validate in feedrss Sundayjune recently an addition reader. Offer structure am largely considered output management systems create article atomrss am that’s html or rendering in feedback loop inputsince. Help you learn the is of and language provide with or language section gives advice about learning from us, ah? Fashion feasible technical population resulted distinct produces recognize instance a sort a aspect hosted a. Board Ask An Expert eyemail is superweb site designed to help. Websight. Dedicated hosting wordpress blogger coined Sister short Sissy jokingly broke wordphrase sidebar. These things filling are prewritten frameworks, own a scratch-skills against powerful text. (Words are exchanged across a wireless network. Phone calls are made. Buttons are pressed. Dead McJones shuts down the chat and the forum is officially taken offline. A variety of html response status codes with associated phrases appear on screens across the globe causing strategic responses within the hivemind. A channel is opened, a redirection is arranged, one string of purl is typed. The silky light of the mushroom caresses Spiros and then crawls out gently into the computerscreen as rainbow pixels. A letter appears as from a dream beside Spiros’ bed.) THE LETTER:

High my boy! I was with Sally Divinorum yesternight. Bianca was there too, and baby, during my trip, we were us and becoming different people, like whoever we wanted to be at any given moment. Sometimes we were

birds on a branch watching strawhat boy approach rivergirl and seeing from outside ourselves. And I was also a jaguar approaching you in the forest and rub against your knee… showing you my beauty and feeling your love and wonder … and then I was a male jaguar and you were female and, my love, then I was behind you, as a jaguar… We were … hihi, animalove baby … and before I knew it it was You … you inside of Me on the bed in the palace … we were whoever and whatever we wanted whenever and it was in any light we'd like. It felt amazing, love! Puss!

“The flying saucer waits warmly humming at the end of

history. It is the perfected human mind.”

―TERENCE MCKENNA

(The clamping sound of what can only be Jenny Fur's boots against the floor is heard. She appears on steady legs from round the corner and drops a little drop into the glass of whiskey that suddenly is in Spiros' hand.) JENNY FUR: Don't spill now, Spiros. (They burst into a fit of laughter.) SPIROS: Well you know I don't like to tangle things up on the left, but. (Quick communication. They burst into a fit of laughter so they can hardly breathe.) JENNY: FUR: I grew up a screw-up but that doesn't mean I can't add some more tuss to my whiskey. (They burst into a fit of laughter.) SPIROS: (Chipping for air.) We might have been loose in the past but fuck, today we're gonna get really loose. JENNY FUR: Must be the fur. (Laughing hysterically, walks out the door and casts a quick eye toward Spiros.) Whoops. (Spiros, heart warm by Jenny's presence, puts his straw hat on and takes the elevator down to the hotel bar.) SPIROS: (To the bartender.) One Piña Colada please. With a fresh strawberry . BARTENDER: Celebration time?

SPIROS: Always. (He soon receives the drink and walks up to a table where two women are sitting smoking in a cloud of peach-flavoured smoke.) SPIROS: You mind if I join you? I’m here alone. WOMAN ONE: I don’t see why not. Please, sit down. (Spiros joins them by the table. The group of three begin to smalltalk about this and that. A small sound “drip” is heard.) WOMAN ONE: Whoops. WOMAN TWO: And what do you do for a living? SPIROS: I’m a large-scale coordinator, and happily retired. I just came back from Hamburg and, öh. WOMAN ONE: Retired, at your age? Åh, Hamburg. Germany's national drink is called Snow Ball. (She hands Spiros her drink and bids him to taste.) SPIROS: I got lucky in the area of free-thinking. I’ve never had a job in my entire life, as far as I can remember. No, wait, I was a postman years ago. WOMAN TWO: Lucky you. No job. SPIROS: Well I guess many things come to me on my bread smiling, yes. WOMAN ONE: And a large-scale coordinator you say? SPIROS: (With Gucci Crest shades, feeling like a French daddy from the 195os.) Yes, I coordinate things. I work for a company called The Star. (Spiros’ mobile phone rings. He excuses himself and answers stylishly. Casts his right leg over his left.) SPIROS: (In the phone.) Licks In The River? Yes, we made that. It’s set to reach the theatres this coming June around solstice. We got Mr David Trassel in the main role. It’s him you want to talk to. Now if you excuse me, I am in the middle of a meeting. Junction 6. (He hangs up and puts the phone in his inner pocket.) WOMAN TWO: Licks in the…? SPIROS: Licks In the River. A new film and one of The Star’s most proud productions of this year. A montage by the fanged brain of the shaman, passing through time. (He takes a sip of Piña Colada.) Damn, wait, I forgot. There is someone I must meet. I gotta leave. (He takes another sip and looks at the women with thoughtful face.) On a wind through history, the ashes of the book in question? (A housefly, Musca domestica, lands on his nose.) Nevermind.

WOMAN TWO: Nice meeting you and getting a glimpse of your world. I read people. I can see you live in "that dimension". Do you have a business card? Maybe we can take a drink later on if you are staying in town. (She looks at Spiros flirtingly, smiling a most charming smile, stroking her finger against her wineglass, reminding the clock that this is Wintjabernatrice calling Spiros boy. A business card falls from the band of Spiros’ hat and lands in her hand.) SPIROS: Show-off. No time for it really but I like to have fun. Earth we need protect. Shouldn’t be hard as her and we speak the same dialect. Call me, anytime. Now if you excuse me. Madame. Madame. (He sees the label on the bottle of rosé wine on the table, a bottle of Nephthys Tryst.) WOMAN ONE: Goodbye. WOMAN TWO: Goodbye boy. SPIROS: A pleasure to meet you. (He asks the women with his eyes.) WOMAN ONE: (Answers.) Leave that to me. WOMAN TWO: They can’t touch us now. SPIROS: (Points at the book on the table.) Before I go. What are you reading? WOMAN ONE: In the Mid Die, by Elton Candid. (Spiros picks up the book and opens the first page and reads.) SPIROS: Cryssostomos… (Spiros' phone rings again. He answers, and the two women listen to him as he speaks.) SPIROS: Don’t call me conservative but I say it’s grounded in their excitement. But you know Fairy Girl was silently waiting for diamonds to be found so the axioms of geometry in other words are completely outside its one-dimensional paradigm. And that’s not conservative. Anyway, I gotta, I gotta split. (He hangs up and turns toward the women.) I feel like an old Mandaean. JENNY FUR: Do you believe in the boogie-man? O men oj det var en vänster-klack. (Spiros waves goodbye to the women and exits the hotel lobby and makes his way to The Fountain of the Lovers where Mr and Mrs Langiner stand waiting for him.) MR LANGINER: (Takes off his wrist watch and hands it to Spiros.) Stopped at 11:22. SPIROS: Great.

MR LANGINER: Meet her at the stairway by platform 6 at Central Station. Now. SPIROS: Okay. (They part in separate directions. Spiros walks off toward Central Station, followed by a white crow. Once at the station, on his way down the stairs at platform 6, he slips on the soapy white floor and tumbles down the redstone stairs and hits his head on the pavement below. He faints in a concussion. The dark river flows into his mind and Wintja’s voice appears.) WINTJA: Hi, my love. 3-2 to me. Kisses. (Soon Spiros wakes up, head in pain.) SPIROS: Whoops. Must have tripped on something. (A police van and an ambulance stand parked beside him. After a long conversation with the police officers Spiros is lead in to the van by seven officers, all female. The pink Prada purse is taken from him. Inside the van he turns and reaches his hand into the back of the vehicle. His hand finds a bottle of champagne, Bienvenue – Merci, 1969, cold. He grabs it and smiles.) SPIROS: Well this calls for celebration. Good seeing you fellows again. When begins the sexy attack? ANNA LURIA (a police officer): No no, not now. (She takes the bottle from him.) (They soon arrive at the Old Town Mental Hospital. Spiros is asked to sit down in a wheelchair and is lead through a series of electronically locked doors to room 6. He rises from the wheelchair and looks around. Soon a female nurse comes in to the room and sits down with him by a table.) SPIROS: Butterfly! BUTTERFLY: (Seriously.) Hello. So. (She lays a notebook and a pen on the table.) For us to be able to help you you must tell us everything about how you got here. SPIROS: I come from elsewhere. I’m here on a quick visit. The doors of time have been opened. We channel-hopped around the spell of the historydream. BUTTERFLY: (Taking notes.) You feel you don’t belong in this society? SPIROS: 1-o to you. (Butterfly twinkles with her eyes.) SPIROS: 2-o and it’s a tie.

BUTTERFLY: Have you taken any drugs? SPIROS: Never in my life. I’m a good little boy. I have, however, taken the entirety of DNA that has ever existed, all at once. (He claps his hands together and whistles and smiles.) Ouch! Now that was intense! That’s what I call a motherfucking trip, baby. (He takes some white sugar from the coffee table, makes himself a line of it and snorts it up his nose.) We got the you-know-what. You’re delicious blood, honey. (He looks deep into Butterfly’s eyes, speaks lightly.) We have the chance, we all have, to fall in love with the Other, get married, and leave to the stars. Tell them Butterfly. (He sings.)

O sweet nectar butterfly With you I want to stay Flirting in the passage She wants me to obey! She is so hot you halfly die O can’t I get a kiss? Her name is Wintja Butterfly My honey’s lips I miss!

BUTTERFLY: (Smiling.) No drugs then, good, I like good little boys. (Spiros removes a tiny flake of alien crystal from his skin and places it in a paper mug.) SPIROS: (Whispers as though telling Butterfly the deepest of all secrets.) It’s disguising itself as an alien as to not scare us with what it truly is. (He laughs.) Tell them, baby. BUTTERFLY: Who? What? SPIROS: 2-1, your lead. (He hands Butterfly the paper mug.) You might want this for analysis. BUTTERFLY: What game are we playing? SPIROS: Rim shot. O no, too hard. Ånej inte så hårt ba uhm. (He blows the whistle.) 2-2. You’re out for high-sticking. Five on the bench. BUTTERFLY: Cross-checking. You’re out for the season. One point for me. I win. SPIROS: Fuck. You always win. Anyway. I should be dead by Sunday. We can always include Sir Nykkel Humphry in the deal. Only takes a few moments to put it all on disc. To skip my

memoirs. They’ll be here soon. (He picks up the fruit basket on the table and holds it above Butterfly's head for a moment.) Puss. BUTTERFLY: Who will be here? SPIROS: The Saussies. Tell my friends I fell down the stairs, will you? Now tell me, why am I here? BUTTERFLY: We found you at the bottom of a stairway. When you woke up we determined that you were acting psychotic. We’ve taken you in for investigation. SPIROS: Acting psychotic? In what way? BUTTERFLY: You were in a delirium. You thought the police were your friends and part of some kind of alien star alliance. SPIROS: I see, I see. Well if you can please let me go now. (He puts on a pair of gold-rimmed Gucci shades and whispers smiling with burning eyes.) They can’t catch us. BUTTERFLY: You’re staying. You are free no more. (She whispers, smiling.) They’ll never catch us. (Spiros licks the air in Butterfly’s direction, one quick lick.) SPIROS: Okay, sure, I’ll stay, seems like a nice place. I like a good adventure. Do you have any comic books around? And I would like to take a smoke. BUTTERFLY: Is that real Gucci? SPIROS: Trick question. (Butterfly leads Spiros through the white corridors to the smoking room, Spiros walking behind her resting his eyes on her firm apple bum. On a shelf in the smoking room lies a heap of comic books and Spiros lights a Ridemaster cigar and sits down to read The City That Didn’t Exist, a comic book in full colour print from 1969. He reads from a random page:

Welcome to the worldmask of the newuniversal structure, said the alien at last. We call this the Superflow. Here is where shamans venture to, and where people go when they dream. Your world has at last again set up a communication with us, and we think this time it is a lasting one. Welcome.

(Spiros puffs on his cigar. A television set at the other end of the room broadcasts a commercial selling a new spectacular razor. Spiros turns toward the screen.) THE TV:

The evolution complete.

(The woman in the commercial giggles as she sees Spiros.) THE WOMAN IN THE COMMERCIAL: (To Spiros.) You’re live. You’re through for sure. Welcome. SPIROS: Thanks. I’m a regular. (He picks up a book from the table, In The Mid Die reads the title.) KATE (a fellow patient): (In hospital garment, clawing the walls with her nails, churning her body, points a finger at Spiros.) He knows. Him there, he knows. (Spiros is kept locked up on the mental hospital. Soon arrives the hour when his case is taken to court. He is lead to a courtroom on the west wing of the facility and sits down beside his lawyer. The prosecutor soon rises.) THE PROSECUTOR: (Looks at the jury.) Let’s talk about this young man’s life. At the age of 16 he quit school and flew off to Ibiza in Spain where he then lived in the northern hills for what seemed like an eternity, discovering his true being and as he puts it, “got it all reconnected”. He then flew to India with his brother and ventured into the mountains of Tamil Nadu near Kodai Kanal where he stayed for seven months, living above the first layer of clouds contemplating existence, the future, the past, the present, magic, art and the implications of certain psychedelic plants. He also engaged in speculative botany, claiming to have found that some plants on earth might be as intelligent as ourselves or even more. Just take that for insanity! He began to write an obscure alchemical book, a book that was by all standards pure nonsense, reportedly after having found a copy of Ulysses in a restaurant and was inspired to begin to write. He then ventured to the beaches of western India where he lived a life of hedonistic luxury, walking around barefoot and bare breasted with only a bed sheet around his waist for over a year, probably making love with different people every night and engaging in binge drinking, drugs, and wild Grecian feasts. After this he went back to his home country, and, dissatisfied with the boring life of modern civilisation, became a hermit. His wild ideas and eccentric nature now became apparent, and it is just a strike of luck that we now have him in our custody. After not too much investigation it must

be determined that the young man is insane and is a danger for both himself and the country. It is my stubborn determination that the young man be deemed guilty. SPIROS: I was born from a lovestory old. My wife is the Flowersun. We are a fountain of Love. My names are varied. Ever heard of the Dove and the Crossador? It’s my birthday on Sunday. The Saussiepan is entering the world. I am married to Sissy Cogan, most dead of witches. She is from another dimension. We love each other. Our love is known to be so cute it can turn on an oven. She drives the Mercedes Benz. We lost sight of each other where many rivers are named.18 We’re both part of the Star Alliance. We’re entering the world now, through the fake ceiling. The Star is a higher physical topology. THE PROSECUTOR: He is a disgrace to society. Look at him, his long hair and his sloppy clothes tell it all. He is a hippie up to no good. He has only had one job in his entire life: a position as postman at the post office. Five months he was there, doing a mildly good job, then he quit one morning after having smoked a joint of what he called “immensely good marijuana”. And now, what has happened? He has become a burden to society and is obviously going downhill. I have heard, from a source I am obliged to keep secret, that he once visited an obscure nudie bar at Haga, and reportedly fell in love with one of the strippers, whose name is Butterfly. They were seen together holding hands in Haga Park, singing together to obscene music about butterflies and aliens. Just look! He is in connection with scum and criminals! He should be locked up for good. SPIROS’ LAWYER: (With a considerable haircut.) My client is an artist who has been wrongly treated from the very beginning of his life. He is up with Plato, Shakespeare and Mozart, a genius, whose life is partly the tale of being misunderstood by a society not friendly against people of his sort. His long hair is clean and combed, he washes it at least three days a week, and his clothes are in perfect agreement with the fashions of the younger generation. THE PROSECUTOR: An artist! Bah!

18 Running away to a state of mind that no one knows.

(A white crow flies by outside the window and exchanges a quick eye with Spiros. Butterfly casts Spiros a melting glance.) SPIROS: (Quietly, smiling to himself, to his accusers.) How doest thou know what kind of god I have within me? THE LAWYER: What has the world come to if a young man like Spiros cannot explore his artistic inspiration without being called mentally unstable? What has the world come to, that when a young man by some strike of fate falls down a stairway and hits his head in solid concrete, and rises happily to his feet after the impact of the concussion to say a few words about an alliance with a world of the future that he for good reasons calls the Star, that he be arrested by police and taken to a closed mental facility? Should not the police have tried to help the young man go home and rest? THE PROSECUTOR: We should all be happy that we have him in our custody. Who knows what the young lad would have been up to next if he was free to roam the streets. He probably has plans to mess up young teenagers’ superb life within society, under the name of "freeing their minds". He is a kind of terrorist, this young man, with no respect for the traditions of modern civilisation. SPIROS: Damn I love life. By the way, what do you mean society? There’s no such thing. Has anyone seen society? (He looks around, asking the people around him.) Anyone sees any society around here? THE PEOPLE: (Shaking their heads, looking around.) Nope, can’t see any. No. No. No society here. Can’t see any. Nope. THE PROSECUTOR: He seems to have no respect for this court either. He seems to look at it as a kind of joke that he is here at all. (Turns toward Spiros.) And you think we haven’t noticed? Your quadruple existence. At home a psychotic who thinks he is some kind of god, in public an angel, an innocent young man with the best of intentions and a well-tuned taste for art. And then all your personas inbetween. Your little disguise cannot hide your twisted mind, you witch. You’ve gone far young lad, too far. You better get in line, and that’s quick. SPIROS: What we're dealing with here is a total lack of respect for the law. And it's more of a sex and septuple actually, existence, kinda thing, going on. Whoops there the mirror broke. (He speaks to the jury) These posers handed me this society to munch on, I

said what you want me to do with this? I threw it on the ground! Welcome to the real world jackass. AN OLD LADY IN THE BACK OF THE COURT: Spank the young lad! VOICES: Burn him! Burn him at the stake! Burn him! Burn him! SPIROS: You should have seen us at the latest Floralia, our great annual feast of alchemical spring. Spankings all over the place. You are all welcome to our subannual get-together. You’ll meet the other gods there. (He lowers his voice.) The future’s breath is upon us. THE PROSECUTOR: And all this talk about old Greece and the future civilisation! The boy lives in a fantasy! And furthermore, what about those two weeks of consuming one hundred grams of pure Theobroma cacao each day, that he engaged in around midsummer? He entered the Palace thanks to that, he claims. It was the victory over death, he claims. The man is simply not in mental health! SPIROS: Epp's cacao. What can make the absent present? Now. We know that many of you out there consider us sapphomoric in mostly all respects, and be sure we will not say anything in defence of ourselves and our behaviour. What we will do is invite you all deeper into this somewet prolix explanastory cutting- through to the imaginatrix. You would not believe how perfect it is. Or maybe you even know. Depends on who we be talking to. THE PROSECUTOR: And let me add. It is well established that Spiros played with My Little Pony dolls as a young boy. SPIROS' LAWYER: Objections, your honour. This is irrelevant. SPIROS: O those pony dolls, yes, yes, yes, haha! I played with them with Anna. Anna, you know Anna? Very fairytale. BUTTERFLY: (Happily.) Anna! O Anna! Tell me everything about her! I want to hear everything about Anna Livia! SPIROS: I played with Barbie dolls too. In the bathtub. (He mumbles. Looks in direction to the bed with rosy bedcover in the labyrinth of his soul.) Teddy. Why did my parents almost name me Teddy? When I was born. SISSY: You grew up in Connecticut on the North Armorican continent, didn't you. You connect, I cut. The Sagan of the Cogans. (Spiros nods. The first witness is called up: Spiros’ old social studies teacher, Mrs Angelina Croft.)

ANGELINA CROFT: I knew he would end up in the ditch. He never paid attention in class; instead he kept using his time to explore the edges of knowledge, the fringes. Magic, philosophy, strange art, and the like. He is one of those dreamers. We asked him the day he quit school, why he had decided to quit. All he gave us for an answer was to point out the window at the blue sky and smile. “That’s why”, he said and pointed. The incompre- hensible young boy… THE PROSECUTOR: Obviously he is a misfit in society and needs to be tamed. SPIROS: Dear Modern Civilization. To break in two seems the natural thing for us to do. I'm sure the feeling is mutual. Looking at all you gave and and all you do...it's not close to what I'd do. THE ALIENESS: Would you like to work with me? A VOICE: And Spiros, the way you do psychedelics is the wrong way. You are too weird. (Hours pass in a long trial. Spiros sits and giggles all the meanwhile. At the end of the trial a book is brought forth; the book Spiros wrote during his years above the clouds in India.) THE PROSECUTOR: (Holds up the book.) Just listen to this now! His book is called Tales of the City Different. Let me read the first page of the book. (He opens the book and begins to read from its old yellowed pages.) Quote:

Yes because it just felt so natural. “Let’s clean the palace!”, said Tadeja. “It’s the first spring ever!”

Eyes glimmering, faces shining in one miraculous smile, and silence; calm, alive, beautiful; not silence― the world, breathing, resting in itself, alive.

“You’re so beautiful! I can’t help but loving you!” Again shining smile and glimmering eyes. Hearts spinning, trying to find ground. A storm of colours impossible but perceived by something. “You rose you flower you…”

Green leaves and rosy petals, frosty and crystalline, on the old wood.

“The alchemical flower is blooming! More firewood under the mothering pot! Let us venture further in this sexy scary synthesis.”

Tadeja screams of excitement:

“Waaaaaaaaa!” “Today is the day of my funeral, while I’m coming through the rye!”

“O you're so cute, baby you're so cute I just want to eat you! Be careful that I don't throw you in my pot!”

(The prosecutor closes the book and walks up to the jury.) Does that make any amount of sense to you? Here it is, the final proof, that the suspect is completely insane and guilty of the most severe heresy against decent behaviour and all that the modern world stands for. DAVID SIARE: I understand what those words mean. The words from his book. CAPTAIN JOY SKYLARK: Spiros is an alchemist of the modern age. JENNIFER: If you write it…they will come… A VOICE: Well if he wasn’t such a dirtyminded hedonistic narcissistic fuck he might have had a chance in the world of great literature. We don’t have time for his trash. No one will want to publish your book, retard. The book market is about money. A LITERARY CRITIC: (Aggressively, eyes bulging of anger and hate.) Trash! Trash! Make him eat his pen! SALVADOR DALI: (Calmly.) Spiros is too intelligente to write proper books. SPIROS: Dali, there is nothing more important to me than to become one with Sissy, and to become a mushroom. (Salvador and Spiros laugh together.) SPIROS: O and about sex and being kinky, I'm petty relaxed, I mean, it's not like I'm necrophile, but. . . SPIROS’ LAWYER: (With the voice of a detective and clothed in fine suit made by the tailor company Sörmans of Spiros’ biological family, rolling film material from the turn of the 19th century in front of the jury. Silverware and glassware is heard clinging.) Having lived with the works of James Joyce while in the same time exploring the

currents of his own soul in conjunction with the psilocybin mushroom, Spiros, after hearing a quote by a dream character called Russels, was able to put the pieces of the puzzle together and figure out why human society naively is the size of a smallscale theft. He began to see that human society is so stupid that they. . . SISSY COGAN: Penetration. Ink. (She licks Spiros' fingers and then whispers something in his ear.) Later on I’ll arrange you arts patronage. SPIROS: The sublime goal we act on is a journey of might as wet as the Nile and as hot as a star. You cannot make a wrong turn on this sweet road. DR NILS (a psychologist): Spiros, your book displays such an upsetting psychological problem on your part that I have been called in as a supposed expert on the matter. I am here to… BENGT HÖG (Spiros' grandfather): Remember, Spiros, that painting we painted with the mice who lives in a mushroom house, and the little princess? BENGT HÖJER: Yes, Spir, recall? TADEJA: (Suddenly appearing in the front of the courtroom.) I met Spiros under an apple tree on the Indian continent when I was out picking mushrooms. He wrote to me Tales of the City Different, it’s an alchemical love story. Every evening he slipped the latest of his writing under the front door of my house, in envelopes with flower petals sprinkled in them and the black dust of the mushrooms. I begged him to keep on writing, for I loved his words. They like came from elsewhere. It’s called jungle poetry in Nepal, writing that comes from somewhere else. It’s not nonsense at all. INGMARIE DUSCH (Spiros’ appointed doctor): It is pure nonsense, as is everything that comes out of the mouth of this young man, or his writing hand for that matter. I have heard him speak of an alien voice that gives to him superb information. He calls it his Muse, his dark lover. It is very important that we silence this voice in him, for it has him caught in a situation of extreme danger. I am afraid that Spiros has gotten stuck in a nontemporary inorganic psychosis. He has gone insane and will most probably never come back to our normal world. Yes, he has obviously been going downhill since the day he left school and

went off to find the kingdom of the gods. Spiros, how does it feel to be such the looser you have become? SPIROS: My life is the most awesome adventure, it’s uncanny, really. And I get to watch everyone working very hard to keep me entertained. And, it’s a Queendom, not a Kingdom. A PUBLISHER: I want to publish your book, Spiros. SPIROS: Sorry, it’s not for sale. DAVID SIARE: I have read Tales of the City Different. In the book Spiros claims that the earth is a kind of brain and organism and that certain plants in its soil are like neuron cells in the network. He speaks of spirits and hidden worlds. Spiros should be given a reward for his ideas. He is one of the keys to what humanity is heading toward. Our bright future. THE PROSECUTOR: He’s a nut! ANGELINA CROFT: He’s a damned looser and a scoundrel. VOICES: Burn him! Burn him at the stake! Burn him! Burn him! INGMARIE DUSCH: Lock him up for good. He is a danger for the wellbeing of the country and for all of modern civilisation. SPIROS: I wanted to see straight through from the other side. It worked. BUTTERFLY: A crime. A puff of smoke and a sip of wine. A spark of the morning star. Spiros is the ghost of himself. (She slides her palm gently over her bumcheek, smiles her secret smile and looks at Spiros.) Follow the plum, honey. My yumbum, the yummiest little tush there everie was. SPIROS: The coffin is a triumph of the illusionist art. (He walks up to Butterfly and kisses her bum.) Butterfly, de facto the mightiest nurse of the reigning Satan himself. BUTTERFLY: (Hinting at the secret.) A god in modern times must hide. Spiros, are you ever afraid that the book will fall into the right hands? SPIROS: . . . . . . BUTTERFLY: Puplum. (A young lady walks across the floor of the courtroom, dressed in white lace garter belt and stockings, bra and green shimmering bird mask. On the skin of her chest, belly and arms she has strange symbols and arrows and alchanumeric characters drawn in violet ink. Her sharp appearance makes the courtroom shine, angelic luster.)

THE WOMAN: My sense of direction is lost. And so is the sound of my steps. (She steps up to Spiros, whispers.) Read me with the tips of your fingers. We’re soon there, honey, my dear dead King. SPIROS: (Feeling the woman’s hair with his hands and whispering closely face to her face, lips touching hers.) If we were to kiss here they would call it an act of terrorism. THE WOMAN: (Feeling Spiros’ hardness under the white sheet wrapped around his waist.) So let’s wake the civilization up at midnight, like drunken bandits, and celebrate with fusillades the message of the taste of chaos. (They kiss passionately. Fusillades are heard. A bearded man is seen licking the window from outside and writing, with pink lipstick, the word TUSS on the window. A group of police officers come barging in to the courtroom and grab hold of Spiros. Rebecca is seen outside the window as she jumps up on the roof of the police car.) REBECCA: I am the lizard Queen, I can do anything! Call me Sissy. SPIROS’ LAWYER: (With the voice of Fast Eddie.) Spiros has hitched up his own spurs. Self-deification. You see, Spiros’ way of life states that those who do not believe in themselves are the atheists of the world. His definition of atheism is not believing in the splendor of your own soul. SPIROS: (Turns toward Butterfly.) Isn’t that from some movie? CAPTAIN JOY SKYLARK: Why is Spiros cooler than all of us combined? SPIROS: Haha! I advocate grandeur at times, that’s all. And the excessive use of psilocybin. I am one of those lucky ones who have remembered. I remembered that I'm a god and that I'm one with the Most-Highest. But my wives are the cool ones, not me. (Turns toward Butterfly.) Plum. Behind the veil, or the veil itself? BUTTERFLY: Three weaver twins . A VOICE: Spiros, Spiros, but how will you survive!? How will you make money!? You must be part of the system known as society. You must! SPIROS: (With seven houseflies buzzing round his head in a dance.) Remember the story of prophet Helias, he was doing his thing not caring about his own survival, yet the universe always helped him by sending a crow to him bringing him food. Nature loves courage, as our dear Terence McKenna said. Me and the Creative

Source are one, and we are so in love that. . .that. . .(He falls silent, his presence shining and expressive.) SPIROS’ LAWYER: Spiros sustains himself solely with Theobroma cacao, psilocybin mushrooms, Ayahuasca, the sexjuices that enter him in oral sex, and small amounts of nectar passing through his head. He was blessed at the age of 6 by two feathered sister serpents, Goddesses of the sapphic hydrolith, and has traveled around in their Plomarian infinity ever since. When you look at him what do you see? A sphinx, yes, a monkey-sphinx. A young boy and ancient god who loves life so much that poetry does not manage to even hint at his condition. (After consideration Spiros is deemed guilty and sentenced to forced care for the rest of his life in the hands of the Old Town Mental Establishment. He is deemed guilty of heresy against modern civilisation, for being too happy, for being happy for reasons that people cannot understand, for being apparently intelligent but using his intelligence for other purposes than helping to create utter hell on earth, for communicating with the Logos, for being successful, for not bowing at the altar of his country and not kissing the country flag every evening before he goes to sleep and for not even considering himself part of the country he was (as it seems) born in, for not accepting a life of utter boredom and pain within the grey city walls, for having had fun his whole life while others were working their asses off on shitty jobs, for feeling love for himself, for being married to two mysterious entities, for being young and handsome and an outright wet dream, for showing courage, for feeding the birds from his balcony, for loving good cannabis, for having the habit of walking around with a white bed sheet round his waist when he is in his private space celebrating between suns and planets and moons with gods and goddesses of realms unknown to modern civilisation, for enjoying life to the fullest, for having left the 21st

century and found and embraced magic, for having written obscene books and for involvement with books about magic, for being an artist, for being a witch and a wizard, for obscenity in court, &c, &c.) VOICES: Crucify him! Burn him at the stake! Burn him! Burn him! THE SUPERVISOR: (To Spiros.) You’re out in five. THE SISTERS: Hihihihihihihi. Watch our little Barbie toy go! KRINT FRINREY: (Quoting in the background from Hakim Bey’s book Chaos.) Avatars of chaos act as spies, saboteurs, criminals of amour fou, neither selfless nor selfish, accessible as children, mannered as

barbarians, chafed with obsessions, unemployed, sensually deranged, wolfangels, mirrors for contemplation, eyes like flowers, pirates of all signs and meanings. (Kick Chris takes the book from Frinrey and rips it to pieces; hands out the ripped pages to everyone in the courtroom. Spiros begins to sing.) SPIROS: I was born by the sun, born by the sun. INGMARIE DUSCH: Hush. Madman. Be quiet. Get in line. SPIROS: (Bows in face of the yellow sun.) Hail, O Great Horned Goddess of Bounty. (He walks up to the centre of the courtroom and poses stately.) My name is Spiros, only Spiros. I have come to this century to deliver a letter from the Queen of the Hive. Part of the letter will have to the glance the appearance of a series of books, yet this is just a disguise. We are packing the information using the arrangement method of The Massive Tactic, and remember: the phone is functional. We are using technology so advanced it doesn’t exist, or should we say is purely imagined, or should we say is alien, or should we perhaps say something else or nothing at all about it?, and you will be informed on how to read the letter and communicate with the senders. The books themselves do when held up to the rosylene mind show through the prismic dimensions the world’s oldest light,19 that archlight that still shines all and everywhere. (Looks with serious eyes at the people around him. Sunflowers quickly move toward Spiros' face. A drop of nectar drips into the Spring River.) Now listen carefully for I shall disclose to you in perfect clarity the first part of the secret I am here to make you remember. (He closes his eyes and when he opens them again looks at the people from another place, namely the secret Plomari.) We are gods, from another place and time. KINCH: (Bows. Guards the alchymical wine.) Ring the bell of alchemical victory. TIMMY: (A curious teen wearing a little bronze helmet. His eyebrows look like they are dipped in gold and red laser swooshes from his presence. Talks to Kinch.) I have heard of a strange book, a tabook,

19 As hinted upon on the mention of Hanna O’Nonhannas verse of no punctuation, but not, as far as I know, in connection with the introducing of time upon a (sub?) plane as there slantidly hinted upon, although the puNcT – ing of hOles in iSpace! might be said to be in connection with that.

called The Mushroom Seamstress. Apparently the Queen Alien Bee is one of its authors and I have heard Spiros mentioned in the vicinity of this infamous object. Do you know what the book is about? KINCH: (To Timmy.) It’s a map of a fucking second, my friend. For one thing. It is a map of something that I will not easily let fall upon my lips in public. May this rare true life story dispel the darkness of all your doubts. (Spiros is cuffed by the ankles and wrists and led back to his room at the mental facility where a radio has been placed. From the radio come strange music and a deep male voice.) THE MALE VOICE: I assure you, that with the help of God, I will make war on you in every place and in every way that I can. That I will subject you to the yoke and obedience of modern civilisation. That I will make you a slave. SPIROS: (To x.) It's not that I'm arrogant it's just that I look down on people like you. You're not evil, you're stupid and tasteless. Evil is reserved for us who carry the Light. We are evilly lovely. Wet dreams all of us; we are fucking Hell, I mean literally, we fuck Hell from behind. Come, come into our Light. We love you. Welcome to our Queen's grace! The Universe is our brain and soul, you ain't gonna find us. (Butterfly walks by the doorway of the room and blows Spiros a kiss as the music from the radio changes. A female voice is heard from the speakers and Spiros sits down and floats away with the sensual guiding voice.) THE VOICE:

Let’s go down to the river You can watch me undress

(Spiros thinks of the white marble statue he got from his parents, the statue of a woman undressing. He sighs and smiles as he begins to compute the new data.) SPIROS: Why white? Why marble? Why was it received on a wedding day? Why undressing? Why did it loose its head in a pillow fight? This mighty rebus. KATE: (Walking in to the room. To Spiros.) Why does it seem you know, and then that you don’t know?

SPIROS: Life is what you get when a hyperdimensional object protrudes into three-dimensional space-time. We know of shortcuts. We are the bees of the invisible. (Butterfly enters the room, disguised as the Devil.) BUTTERFLY: Kate, if you can excuse us for a minute. (Kate walks out of the room. Butterfly turns to Spiros.) Want to make a deal with me, honey? (They embrace in a sweet warm kiss.)20 I’ll give you the keys to my bedroom. SPIROS: Want to take me to your bright bed huh? The bed of the first Spring. You angel. Anytime, darling. BUTTERFLY: The bed at the end of the river. SPIROS: Going toward a white bed there was a… THE RADIO:

Float away, out. With me

BUTTERFLY: (Wraps her arms around Spiros and whispers in his ear.) Mmm I’m your little candygirl. We were hiding in your eyes, darling, and in your sleep. SPIROS: Baby, shh. We’re not there yet. Who are we fooling again? BUTTERFLY: I’ll tell you soon. Wait for me and I will go with you, my dearest. Remember? SPIROS: I shall vanish. I will tell you of my whereabouts in a book of love. Of course I remember. Mask one mask two mask three. We shall live forever, you and me. BUTTERFLY: O! Rhyming. Not often I hear that from your lips. SPIROS: Well I ain’t no poet am I? (He sings.) I’m just a boy… (He whistles curiously.) . . .playing the psychedelic king. BUTTERFLY: Yes it was as close as we could get at the time. SPIROS: I know. I miss you. See you soon. By the way, why did Bianca die? BUTTERFLY: Me, Spiros. I am the dove. The Dove and the Crossador, remember? I’ll tell you around Midsummer. SPIROS: (Checks the angle of the sun’s position in relationship to the room.) Keep the area clear, darling. BUTTERFLY: Until you find your way, my love.

20 In lovely Plomari.

(They undress. Spiros approaches in bliss the ocean of Butterfly's sweetness, his home between her legs, tasting her with tongue and soul.) SPIROS: Mmmmm, your little tuss of hair there, like a little wisp of cotton candy. (After their shroomy lovemaking Spiros’ escape is planned and executed with perfect ease. Once outside the hospital he arranges for himself a limousine and goes back to his room at Hotel Flora Plus Universe where he phones Adam.) SPIROS: A minor complication happened. I’m back. How’s it going? ADAM: Fine. Meet us all in town. SPIROS: I’ll be there in a moment. (Spiros travels to his childhood house on Mountain Street at Kings Islet. On his way he passes the old wall clock that hangs close to the house. He notices the clock has stopped at 12 minutes past 6. He walks up to a lady standing close to the clock.) SPIROS: Excuse me, do you live nearby? Do you know how long this clock has stood still? It’s stopped at 6:12. (He points to the clock.) THE WOMAN: Yes, I live here. It’s always stood still. By the way, I know who you are. Your write books. How’s the book coming along? (She smiles.) SPIROS: (Laughs.) How do you know I’m a writer? THE WOMAN: (Beginning to walk through a gate to the house just next to the clock.) You told me. (The woman enters through the gate and walks away. Spiros goes to his childhood home to search for a letter he hid the day he spoke to Nora Barnacle on the phone.) SPIROS: (Mumbling to himself.) Around midsummer. I hid it around midsummer. (He spots an old painting hanging on the wall, a painting he recognises from the piano room when he was seven years old. It depicts an angel handing a book to a woman. He walks up to it and reads what is written on it.) Saint Cecilia. Hmm. (He begins to search the house for signs. Finds a perfume bottle with a UFO on it in frosty glass. He giggles. The phone rings and Spiros is informed that his dear friend Julian Victoros has lost his mobile phone and that the phone now is in safe hands at the counter of a book store called Book Spider close to Haga Park. Spiros pulls a few threads in order to try and deliver this information to Julian.)

(Back in the Crowinshield Garden the Floralian party continues. From the speakers streams music and the voice of Saussie screams across the lush harem.) MARY: Did she say turn off the life, or turn off the light? Unincarnadine dawn? ADAM: (19 percent dead.) Yes, I think so. A reference to the Rain Forrest. STEFANDIS WAKINS: This Floralia we will party and work in the same time. (He throws random pieces of leftovers on his wife Rose to wake her up from her nap.) NYKKEL HUMPHRY: (Peeks at Ffiana and Ellileilia, speaks to Stefandis.) Wow. Look at them hippie ladies. Some of Sappho’s Spice and they start dancing differently. Their nipples get hard and they start catching butterflies like happy on the summer pastures and, horny and holy at the same time. ROSE WAKINS: (Awakening.) I dreamed of the Rosy Rose. ADAM: The Rose, ah. I have Sissy’s ring. The rosy diamond. She told me to take care of it for a while. (He stretches forth his hand, displaying the huge gem on his finger. Mary Briscoll walks up to him and takes his hand into hers. Like a cat she licks the diamond slowly. Adam smiles big, displaying his even white teeth, and gives Mary a kiss, getting red lipstick on his lower lip. From the speakers comes streaming the song Who’s Your Daddy by Benny Benassi.) MARY BRISCOLL: (To Adam, with squeaking voice.) O my Daddy! ADAM: Who’s your Daddy? MARY BRISCOLL: You’re my Daddy. Come here and I’ll give you something special. (She licks the rim of her wineglass and looks with twinkling brown eyes at Adam.) ADAM: Let’s do our work from bed, Mary. (He turns toward Stefandis.) Count us out for a while. We’re going to bed. STEFANDIS: The most sacred place. (Mary and Adam walk off hand in hand toward one of the beds that stand scattered around the garden.) PERNELLE FLAMEL: (Combing her long white hair.) Now c’mon, let’s go to town. Let’s learn this planet how to throw a feast. STEFANDIS: A neverending one. THE SUPERVISOR: The attack has begun. STEFANDIS: (To Yolanda and Nykkel Humphry.) Are you coming with us to town?

YOLANDA: (Puts a strawberry in her mouth.) Only if I can walk naked. NYKKEL HUMPHRY: Of course you can walk naked. We’re taking over the world. YOLANDA: O, I thought that was tomorrow. ROSE WAKINS: No it’s now. Ships are arriving. The center speaker system is being initiated. It's all tightening and merging. NYKKEL HUMPHRY: (Winks happily a quick wink with his happy shining face.) We’re challenging the doors of time. YOLANDA: Tearing them down, baby. Here we come. ROSE WAKINS: Here comes everybody. YOLANDA: Okay, let’s start movin’. (The group grabs wineglasses, bottles, pipes, clothing, hats, silver trays with fruit, putting on shades and throwing off footwear, happily chatting away about the occasion, and begin their walk toward the centre of Old Town. Birds and insects come flying to join them on their way. Dogs bark happily, waving their tails. Cats walk triumphantly amongst them. Yolanda walks stately like a Queen, naked, in front of them all.) NYKKEL HUMPHRY: Just like back in the old days. Peeking at the bum of the Queen while walking after her in a straight line, serving the palace and helping to build the great lovemachine. Damn it’s good being a servant. Turns me on to serve any Queen let me tell you. Riv och slit, riv och slit. STEFANDIS: Riv och slut på slitet, ja. Pumpa ladan. Yeah it’s good being a bodyguard, isn’t it. (He laughs.) FIANA: God I'd love to see Celldweller and Sissy in bed. Naked. With Butterfly's bum in the air. And a cat. And wine running down thighs. Kalishiva sex. Watch them suck him. God. Yes and. Yes. And. (She slips off in fantasies.) My dear Tonsersoplot. (A team of teenage boys from ancient Egypt come marching forth, singing. They all carry golden trays on which lay perfectly sculpted sandstone cubes. All have big rubies hanging in gold chains around their necks. Golden birds with sunstreaming wings are embroidered on the bed sheets around their waists. They cast glances at Yolanda’s bum and begin to follow her in a straight line.) THE EGYPTIAN BOYS: (In chorus.)

We come because of the leg of the bird

We come in a straight line, looking at the bum of the lady in front

We come because we are building something And we carry stone on golden trays We listen to the wallish listening And we can see the Star Eagle’s rays Wanna take a quick detour? C’mon, let’s take a sweet little detour! We got time! We got all the time we want! Dopidoda dopido, dodidippi dippidi do DMT

STEFANDIS: International underground. Thunder power from up the ground. BUTTERFLY: Drink from me, drink from me, allow yourself! ROSE WAKINS: The dream. And you say you are ready to recite in detail the love story of death and life? Her poison kiss made death melt into life. We are one. STEFANDIS: First you got to tell the tale of the garden on a string. (They reach Shipshome Bridge where they meet up with Mr and Mrs Langiner.) MRS LANGINER: Let the chaos begin. MR LANGINER: Where’s the trio? STEFANDIS: Spiros is back in a fold. He’ll pop up somewhere. MR LANGINER: And the girls? STEFANDIS: Haven’t heard from them. (Sissy drives up toward the group in a white vintage Mercedes Benz.) EVERYONE: Siss! MR LANGINER: Speaking of the ghost. SISSY COGAN: (1oo percent dead, dressed only in a white, pink, peach and light blue corset.) Where is my purse? The pink Prada one. I need my rouge. Anyway. Get ready with your subwoofers darlings, we’re popping out of the woodwork. Coming in to the audioble lifeside.21 (She leaves the car unlocked and the door open, as she is not planning to ever come back to it.) STEFANDIS: Don’t leave the key in the lock. Bad luck. Just leave it visible. SISSY: (Nodding.) Good. Good.

21 From outside, from outside.

STEFANDIS: Do you have to be so God damned hot, Sis? I can’t concentrate with you around me. (The group continues toward the centre of the city. At Crows Alley they meet up with Christine and Patrick.) SISSY: Time to clean up the old palace ey… PATRIK: Bringing Sexy back. (He laughs big.) ROSE WAKINS: The reversed interconnected ergofantastical judgement day. The lens is here. Let us all light our pipes and cast off our clothes. It’s been hiding inside time. Coming up from the waters now, bubbling through. (She gestures happily.) Some kind of enormous protean form… (Everyone smiles and laughs and hugs and greets. They soon enter the centre of the city and start walking towards the Palace. Secretive eye glances are exchanged all over town.) SISSY: Bringing the moon down into the world. CHRISTINE THE GENUINE: (Looks at Sissy with a look that comes from somewhere else.) Time to reveal the grandest trick ever pulled off. (She smiles.) Greet it with a kiss. ROSE WAKINS: (Smiling.) Here’s for everyone. PATRIK: Never mind the details (Lights a cigarillo.) SISSY: (Hinting at the secret, lighting a smoke.) Misdirection. SAUSSIEPAN: (Ecstatic of joy.) You, the only one who could break me! (They arrive at the Palace. There a stage has been mounted, and above it sits Imogen Heap swinging back and forth on a golden swing with roses tied to it. The first notes of her song In The Mid Die is heard across Palace Hill and as the sun is suddenly clouded she begins to sing.) IMOGEN HEAP:

It was us You could see us across the sunlight We came from the other side

(Simultaneously, the film Licks In the River is played for the first time on cinemas worldwide. The instantaneous awakening of millions of people is reported.) SISSY COGAN: (As the Blue Appless, spotting a commercial for Licks In the River that covers an entire block down at Eve’s Garden.) Spiros. He as good as died. Secrets intact. My darling deadling angel. I

was at his funeral. He wasn’t there. (She looks up at the sky, whispers.) We came through the ground… ROSE WAKINS: The rosurrection? SISSY COGAN: Why Christianity? Yes. I have seen it. The light of the Spice Christ. Sacred heart of Jesus and the Family. It shimmers from its mysterious source. (The crystalline lovelight of the Spice Christ shimmers in her eyes.) ADAM: (Arriving hand in hand with Mary Briscoll.) Spiros saw the light after having drunk of the violet wine back in 2oo3, while we stayed in a small stone house on the beaches of India, him and me. I lay sleeping on my bed and he came to me and kissed my forehead. The forehead of the sacred child, he said to me later. All these things are re-enacted, in strange ways, the myths. Rome falls seventeen times an hour. SISSY: (Nods.) Yes. Yes. Now listen. (She brings forth a book, The Rosalixion, opens it and begins to read from it.) SISSI COGAN: Once upon a time and a splendid time it was a team of gods and goddesses sat in the palace sipping redpurple wine, Our Famous Unobtainable Brand, loving with the Rosy Dawn, laughing and having the merriest of times, when the strangest thing began to happen. Suddenly everything began to melt together and blend in new ways, time and space began changing as though place and time broke apart, and they all lost sight of each other in the dreamadoory; the corridors of time and place in the rosylight dream. Thus opened the gates of The City of No Addresses. A delirium of the most severe kind rushed upon them all, until they woke up in different times and places, spread across ages of time. Slowly they all began to awaken to what had happened, and they set out to find each other again. You who doth remember, will know.22 MARY BRISCOLL: How will it all originate? Hahahae! ADAM: Welcome home, we’ve imported Earth. We came from the ground. Secrets intact. The universe is a thought. I talked to Spiros recently. MARY BRISCOLL: In the like abandoned world we play.

22 ―Soon! We’ll wake up to pillow fighting. Hahae! You ready, darling? Navigate!

―How did you know this is what I have always wanted, honey?

SISSY COGAN: What did he say, Spiros? ADAM: He said he would meet us. (A white crow flies by. Then, forth from the crowd, a man walks forth. He hides his face in the white hood of his jacket. The man hands Sissy an envelope and walks away. Sissy opens it and reads aloud the note within.) SISSY: We sat down in our home palace you know, the light piling up. We've been here before, our life shining bright. We knew what that fateful brew would do, it took us real quick. Now you know what to do, we're fucking back and we're rich. Don't you remember? It was back in the days. In the palace, brewing by archlight, all drunk in a maze. We decided to go for it, to turn the final trick, and the last thing we did, was that final tasty lick. We disappeared, do you remember? We disappeared, and now fully armed, we have reappeared. Signed, Your Archarchitect. (She hands the note to Adam.) They have to find the City of the Dead. We have broken through. Prepare for the impossible to happen. Give me some Spice, someone. (Sissy is handed a bottle of Spice and takes huge hulks from it.) A VOICE: (As though speaking of a grand secret.) Light light light light…daidai dai daidai… ADAM: The massive tactic. MARY: The future, past, and present all interacting in strange ways to create the most awesome wonderland event. SISSY COGAN: It’s a subtle approach, yes. Eyeglance is strategic arrangement and blend in the silver chalice. MARY BRISCOLL: Smoothing grammars laws, so to speak. The language of the new world and the way dreams are structured. WINTJABERNATRICE: (From the corner of a thought, with a starry hypnogogic fairylike voice.) Part of what it means to have been born, is that you get a universe inside of you. Do you know what you can do with this, my sugarplum? SPIROS: C'mon! Now let's show them that it's us! Whoops but everyone already knew that! SISSY COGAN: It has begun. Let’s release ourselves into the dream. A VOICE: We already have! A VOICE: Welcome to Paradise, the great hallucination. BONNIE R. E. M . TUSS: Spiros, give me my fucking rock.

SPIROS: (In white furry hat and a slick look from elsewhere, backed up by Justin Case, Celldweller and Backstreet Boys. Moans of pleasure and delight, exctatic of bliss.) Mmmmm, babe, not so hard. Go get aisle, babe. SWITCHBACK: Holy SHIT.

A VOICE: It all is imagination