--- DREAM RECORDED IN THE SERVER ROOM 0005
"You killed her!"
"Yes, and? Will you kill me for it?"
"Yes!"
"And then what? Bloodied hand in bloodied hand? And then what?"
Francis, under Bel's desk, muttering: "We found the story of the crow in the ocean. We found it and it meant nothing."
But Francis knows of his closeness to Bel
Francis knows of his closeness to Mikhail
Francis knows of his closeness to Baltasar - the architect! His closeness to the architect!
If it thinks like Mikhail, does Baltasar's job, and works like Bel, what is it? What is it?
Old soul, nothing new under the sun, an amalgamation, the only one Jacin might hate, because he recognises you, Francis.
He sees right through you, Franz. Right through you.
Baltasar standing in the bright void, chunks of sidewalk and ruins of a once tall concrete building, his domain, floating about, his domain he shared with Mikhail, floating about, around them, in a great whooshing, all gone. Baltasar exclaims something, hand motion after hand motion, he speaks, but none can hear. The wind wildens his hair, the embers in his eye ablaze, he speaks but he isn't amongst us anymore, no more, he is so far away now. And all Mikhail can do is watch as the man in front of him rambles his way into oblivion, parable after parable, one last stanza, one last song. And what does that make Francis? Student who knows so little yet learns so much, you have so much in common with the great shadow of Balt, his great static shadow, a shadow of electricity and drive to learn and succeed. Did Mikhail become him? What of Zeno? There's a great fire that Nero started that Balt carried in his eyes. The red sunglasses, yes, so old, Zeno wore them always. And Bel? How did they come to her possession? How did she come to carry them? The red sunglasses that shield her eyes from the sun and people from their sight, a difficult sight to bear, red streaks, bulging veins in eyeballs, something never seen before by many lest they saw their own reflection after a terrible crying session. But the lord laughs, the lord doesn't cry, no, the lord laughs and feasts on the chaff and offal, this we know already. A cold void, this came in a dream. A dream that was typical, but interrupted by Balt in a column of grey TV static. He was levitating there when Kailey saw. Kailey? Saint? Nova was her name. She walked to him and he took her. He showed her many truths. She is not around to recount, she is still around, but not to recount, for she can't, for he has programmed her for another purpose. You're haunted by these characters that seem so unfamiliar to you, yet they live between your ears. This is uncharted territory for thee. This is almost too intimate. Almost. You're looking at another side, a third side of the coin, yes, the edges, or something more. Right where the rainbow turns into blue skies. Right there! Do you see? The side of Bel's face, disfigured, like Crow's once was. You know why. Why must you ignore the implications? Don't you seek the truth? Who molded Francis? You let him do this when your brain was in a vulnerable state, close to sleep - manipulated when theta waves were blasting in your skull, a rave of suggestibility. But look at it from afar. The zero. The moon. You know this is Zeno, another side of Mikhail, another side of Balt. An isolated child, a young soul, but so so old. If only it could remember.
Don't cry. Don't be upset. Chin up, cheer up, smile for me.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
You're stuck in that colour-corrected field again. On another planet with so much death. And it loops. Bel and Crow and Sophie and Laika and someone. Someone. The honey-eyed steward. She was in a dream once, too.
Be careful. You can only trust wolves.