Jul. 4th, 2008

derbildhauer: (Laughing)
Take a litle walk to the edge of town
Go across the tracks
Where the viaduct looms,
like a bird of doom
As it shifts and cracks
Where secrets lie in the border fires,
in the humming wires
Hey man, you know
you're never coming back
Past the square, past the bridge,
past the mills, past the stacks
On a gathering storm comes
a tall handsome man
In a dusty black coat with
a red right hand

He'll wrap you in his arms,
tell you that you've been a good boy
He'll rekindle all the dreams
it took you a lifetime to destroy
He'll reach deep into the hole,
heal your shrinking soul
Hey buddy, you know you're
never ever coming back
He's a god, he's a man,
he's a ghost, he's a guru
They're whispering his name
through this disappearing land
But hidden in his coat
is a red right hand

You ain't got no money?
He'll get you some
You ain't got no car? He'll get you one
You ain't got no self-respect,
you feel like an insect
Well don't you worry buddy,
cause here he comes
Through the ghettos and the barrio
and the bowery and the slum
A shadow is cast wherever he stands
Stacks of green paper in his
red right hand

You'll see him in your nightmares,
you'll see him in your dreams
He'll appear out of nowhere but
he ain't what he seems
You'll see him in your head,
on the TV screen
And hey buddy, I'm warning
you to turn it off
He's a ghost, he's a god,
he's a man, he's a guru
You're one microscopic cog
in his catastrophic plan
Designed and directed by
his red right hand
derbildhauer: (Spectacles)
*He's spent the few days since he arrived quietly observing and learning all that he can about the nature of the place in which he has found himself. The occurrence of so many versions of the same people was jarring at first, but he has become accustomed to it, and started to study individuals to determine the best way to tell them apart. Miniscule differences in body language, vocal infection, mannerisms - things that would be of little importance in the outside world, yet in here take on a significance all of their own. His own presence seems to have called little attention, and from that he deduces that there must be or have been other versions of himself here, although he has seen none.

The many versions of the boy that he has observed is disconcerting, and there is a deep revulsion every time that he encounters one - although thus far he has succeeded in remaining outwardly impassive.

He has also learned the art of creating rooms, although it was not intentional. The day he arrived, he spotted a door that he thought he recognised, and upon opening it found himself in an exact replica of his study in Germany - stone floor covered in heavy rugs, walls lined with bookcases and cupboards - ancestral portraits filling the gaps between. The familiar heavy walnut desk and several blue leather upholstered chairs are deceptively perfect replicas of his own. The oversized stone fireplace behind the desk had a welcoming fire in the grate, and his sword cane and a small hunting knife had been where he expected to find them in a cupboard by the door - the latter now concealed in his pocket as was his usual practice when at home.

It had always been a sanctuary, and it is now, as he sits at the desk with a laptop in front of him and a cup of Earl Grey cooling rapidly beside it next to the inkpot and quill. The conversation he is having on-line concluded, he sits back with his eyebrows knitted in a frown, a slight smile playing on his lips still.

He reaches for the cup and takes a sip of tea, staring at nothing in particular, but with a deeply thoughtful expression on his face.*


Hnnn... we shall see.

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derbildhauer

January 2009

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