I dashed across the countryside to get away from this insidious rain and dim scene. Pictures of the sky would be pointless, as would looking up in general. That leads to metaphorically not looking up, and that’s why people get depressed.
You looked at me like I had given the Gettysburg Address, but that was eighty seven years ago, dear. It’s a new era now, one where people don’t look up because they’re on their phones. They still get depressed, though. You agreed with that. I could tell by your symbols and markings shifting. The Rorschach is a little old place where we can get together. Rorschach, baby! You giggled. It was my new favorite sound, I decided.
I keep talking to you like you’re not here, like you aren’t in the room. My readers think I’m breaking the fourth wall, right readers? but you (the person I’m talking to, not the readers) have always seemed to be able to keep up with all my parenthetical references, even when vocalized (like I am doing right now in your head).
I can change subjects more easily than a queen – she can only change subjects through execution or conquest. That type of pseudo-wisdom is what passes for philosophy in the palace library. I should know. (I should, but I don’t. It’s all been forgotten.) I broke into the palace with a sponge and a rusty spanner and replaced all the vexing intertextual lexical textbooks with pictures of the sky. That’s why I’m so out of breath and wet of face. I haven’t been crying at all. It’s that damned rain, falling on my mug, as I scanned new horizons for whispers of the chaotic sky. It won’t meet me in the middle, and I can no longer fly since my wings were stolen.
My phone is like that guy’s credit card, fully charged. What guy? A metaphorical guy, a hypothetical guy, like all the guys you talk about but never name. Take your pick. Readers, you can help out here. Play the guitar for me. Take your pick. Play us down to the mountains of gold. Take your pick. Sing happy work songs through the highlands. Take your Pict. Listen to the vague laughter in the hallways that suddenly appear when anyone builds anything. Take a picture. This paragraph was brought to you by repetition. It’s a chanting cadence that makes you want to hopscotch through the verdant hills looking for lost cities.
The wind blew through my hair like I was walking beneath a herd of baby pegasi. The Sidhe eyeballed me suspiciously, because I wasn’t my usual reverent self. You looked at me for a different reason. I wasn’t from here, yet I wasn’t a stranger in a strange land. My magic was just different, that’s all. I could make tragedy disappear, and pull laughter out of thin air. That is precisely why you kissed my cheek, just there. The other cheek was because I learned how to speak your language. I think you may have been looking for the same chaotic skies, because you had rain on your face as well. You told me everyone looks miserable in the rain, unless they are dancing or singing. I agreed completely.
Did that answer all your questions? Except that one, I know. But our closed eyes, warm touch, dancing singing soaking wet embrace, twirling amidst the thunder and gusty laughing pegasi, imagining castles into existence, willing happiness to manifest steadfastly in a handfast, just this fortnight, will probably answer that one.