Key-holder, Bee-stinger, Dream-eater and
Marco have been on the inside of a long
dream, each in their own under-ground rage
lost in the tunnels of time, until now.
Bee-stinger the maiden witch emerges first,
cloud in hand; the tunnels of time and space
have not aged her beauty, but her mind is old.
She has lived powerful dominance through Art
Over and over again, through century upon
century of training, spells cast over vast
dominions, mountains turned to dust, deserts
turned to oceans of flowers, animals turned
to humans, and humans to animals. The body
of her work is so impressive, it is nearly
infinite. In her dream, she has become all-
mighty, but time has had fun. Her haughty
Consciousness has evolved into the soul of
an old vampire who has lived multiple lives
and has seen it absolutely all. As she walks
out, still her teenage self in appearance,
The Pilgrim is surprised to see her standing
upright like a spider that suddenly stands
on two legs and walks straight into a mirror.
She squares him up, her eyes cold and numbing.
“Who are you?”, dares the Pilgrim say. Silence.
Then, a feeble hiss. “Who are YOU”, she replies.
The Pilgrim, now emboldened, smiles. “I am the
Gate-Keeper of the Castle”, he says gently.
“My name is Fugitive”. She looks at him intently,
then leans toward the door, and moves past him.
“Good to meet you, priest”, she says as she walks
away. He runs after her, and walks with her into
The sunshine, out of the Basilica into the town
square. Everything is still, as the morning is
not yet under way. “What is your affliction?
I mean, religion”, she asks him as he struggles
to keep up with her brisk pace. “Where are you
going?”, he replies, confusedly. “I am off”, she
says, and then she departs. He looks on, as her
body moves away, her shadow increases in length.
Dream-eater walks out after her sister. In her
sleep-wake, she has lived an eternity of self
achievement, mastered the mind into meditative
sittings and matra-ing, and her body has reduced
the fat to the skeleton of a burnt candle. In
the stratosphere of common dreams, her exercises
have gained thousands, nay millions of followers.
She has a whole planet (in the underground tunnels)
completely plastered with her pretty pictures,
and a ring is keeping her hand diamond-cast, and
her eyes full of Venereal joy. In fact, she has
come to rival Venus in the status of ultimate
Goddess. Naturally, because of this, she has a
little attitude problem if she does not get her
way. Her gem makes her body younger, and her mind
older, and it takes pictures of her all the while.
Key-holder walks out with a whole tribe. Like a
war-lord, he has sired a multitude of children,
and in the tunnels his grief has grown into love
of the flesh, and then to a pit in the stomach.
Women of every age and shape walk behind him in
a file. Even as we thought we lived in dreams in
those murderous, lustful running tunnels, the
consequences of our mind actions follow us to the
Town square, to the Castle locked in a senseless
war, and suddenly the piazza is alight with the
racket of playing children, and of wailing wives.
Key-holder walks straight up, looks to the horizon,
and ignores the Pilgrim. His dream was to achieve
enlightenment, was to fall in love with the young
Saka princess. Instead, he has fathered a generation
of grief, but his anger has steadied, he reaches out
To more supple buttocks, and he unrestrainedly mates
in the town square with one of his younger wives.
He has aged considerably, but his eyes are still
shrill cries into the void, and his hands are soft.
Marco walks out last: alone, and he can barely walk.
He drags a trunk over-flowing with treasure. He
struggles with the chest and his stomach, which
is wide and flabby, his head is bald, and his body
has come to be a rotten fruit. His mind, likewise,
obsesses with riches, and with revenge. He is stock
piling monies in order to stave off enemies. In his
dream, he has fought countless economic wars and
he has come to loathe every human being on this
and other planets. His only joy, his only relief
from endless coin-counting is stuffing his face
with the greasiest of meat-pies, and with cheese.