From Heaven and Hell
For we will not survive them
From Heaven nor Hell
Shall any man return
To speak of his joys
At the hands of the Furnace
At the hands of the White Light
Furnace Mirabilis
Eye-Blowing Light
At the hands of these Holiest of Holies
No man has returned
From Heaven and Hell
O Cracky deliver us
From Heaven and Hell
O Cracky deliver us
The stars are blotted out,
Clouds are covering clouds,
It is darkness, vibrant, sonant.
In the roaring whirling wind
Are the souls of a million lunatics,–
But loosed from the prison house,–
Wrenching trees by the roots,
Sweeping all from the path.
The sea has joined the fray,
And swirls up mountain-waves,
To reach the pitchy sky.
Scattering plagues and sorrows,
Dancing mad with joy,
Come, Mother, Come!
For Terror is thy name,
Death is in Thy breath.
And every shaking step
Destroys a world for e’er.
Thou "Time" the All-Destroyer
Then come, O Mother, Come!
Who can misery love,
Dance in destruction's dance,
And hug the form of Death,
To him the Mother comes.
"Why don't you take a seat over there?"
The young man, in his mid twenties, heads to the seat he was offered. He completes the table of eight, nodding stiffly to both left and right as he sits down. There are a dozen matching tables placed all over the hall, all full of smiling, talking and laughing guests in suits and dresses.
The young man stares at his plate for the next hour, occasionally nibbling on the pâté and salad on it. For some reason he feels like everybody else in the hall suspects him of something.
When the wedding dinner is about to end the young man's older brother happens to walk by and recognize the arch of his back. The older brother, in his flashy white suit and with all the bravado the day has granted him, walks closer. He greets the table, puts his hand on his younger brother's shoulder and says: "I hope you all know who this guy is. As I speak, he's trying to define a cultural phenomenon. Look at him. This is what he does 24 hours a day. He's a very distant relative of the Richardsons... but we all appreciate his work."
"A very... distant?" the young man repeats in his mind. "How ironic."
He feels something maneuvering inside of him. Again. He excuses himself from the table.
"It feels like something is kicking my stomach from the inside" he mutters to the rest of the table as he stands up. "I guess this is what women that carry children must feel like", he adds with a laugh that slowly breaks down.
Seven days later no one from the table remembers his face.
Fourteen days later they all do.