"I created you," he quietly said.
The rooftop was littered with gray spots of light. It seemed to move with the shadows of the clouds; the world was alive. No, wait.
No, wait. The world was a sun. Dazing sunlight blotted out thought of any beyond, of anything past the tyrannous skyscrapers of the city. If you jumped, you'd be swimming in a sea of white. All was light.
He grinned wide. His canines had always had a habit of protruding over the bottom lip as it thinned. The tinted lenses cast ghosts of dark down his cheeks like stains. No, he was brooding. No sunglasses, eyes were clear and dark, concentrated on the roving bands of superhighways, the red and white streams. The glasses held the reflections of red and white galaxies.
He said, "The two of us were never meant to be."
"No, no. The Poet is not the Speaker. The Speaker is himself, while the Poet is God."
"Yes. The Clockmaker God."
"Time is an illusion. An allusion. Forget the hands. Simple metaphors of the written as the Poet sees fit to see. I created you," you see, "To be all I never was."
Then if you were never me, then whose hands are these. The hands gripping the railing offered an exquisite contrast against the world of steel and concrete. Industrial towers, chimneys a century old, black smoke. The hands gripping the railing offer a glimpse of memory to us.
Then, yes, I was wrong. The rooftop was decayed. Eating at the edges of sight, in the cracks, was a green disease. Suffocatingly penetrative, the digital cells etched an existence in their own prison wall. There was speaking through the plug. Forget the hands. Time is an illusion.
"But there is still time. Let us give the nothing everything. One last time."
The rooftop was littered with gray spots of light. It seemed to move with the shadows of the clouds; the world was alive. No, wait.
No, wait. The world was a sun. Dazing sunlight blotted out thought of any beyond, of anything past the tyrannous skyscrapers of the city. If you jumped, you'd be swimming in a sea of white. All was light.
He grinned wide. His canines had always had a habit of protruding over the bottom lip as it thinned. The tinted lenses cast ghosts of dark down his cheeks like stains. No, he was brooding. No sunglasses, eyes were clear and dark, concentrated on the roving bands of superhighways, the red and white streams. The glasses held the reflections of red and white galaxies.
He said, "The two of us were never meant to be."
"No, no. The Poet is not the Speaker. The Speaker is himself, while the Poet is God."
"Yes. The Clockmaker God."
"Time is an illusion. An allusion. Forget the hands. Simple metaphors of the written as the Poet sees fit to see. I created you," you see, "To be all I never was."
Then if you were never me, then whose hands are these. The hands gripping the railing offered an exquisite contrast against the world of steel and concrete. Industrial towers, chimneys a century old, black smoke. The hands gripping the railing offer a glimpse of memory to us.
Then, yes, I was wrong. The rooftop was decayed. Eating at the edges of sight, in the cracks, was a green disease. Suffocatingly penetrative, the digital cells etched an existence in their own prison wall. There was speaking through the plug. Forget the hands. Time is an illusion.
"But there is still time. Let us give the nothing everything. One last time."