Work Text:
Concerto.
The kinds of flowers we planted in the picturesque spring garden. Multifoliate pattern.
The Dark Forest answers the question of silence in the cosmos, the songbird which chirps for a choir finds that music is taboo to crows.
We were the swallow that invited annihilation to our doorsteps.
It’s a radial symmetry in radiant yellow.
The little stardust rejoins his brothers in the void, an exhale from the last sunset of a forgotten horizon. Sailing with the nonexistent North Wind, finding itself a refuge in the ash that’ll be known as Elysium one day.
It’s a gleaming letter carried by a wanderer without mind.
Through the looking glass is heaven, the mechanical pupil blinks, “Remember this moment, precious and unique.” A snapshot. Next to the other million memories of the same black curtain, the fool sees that his garden is a teardrop falling through the sky, and wonders if wonderland was still wept by god.
It’s a machine carrying a silent lullaby and pictures of pond scum.
From the dust-now-blue, the fool gave heaven an eye of his own. And told the crying thing to sing very loudly, enough to pierce through deaf ears. But it would not be this way, all the critters of this forest have long abandoned their voices, and singers are left littered in the shrike’s den, martyred and maimed, the fault of their beloved visceral art which leads only to calamity.
Innocent little thing, not knowing its beholding eye stares at the imminent shape of an angel, madness requiem.
The fool sent a letter declaring his death wish to the universe. As an improbable chance brought her to the makeshift concert, so too did it bring mercy. The satellite takes a breather. And with the first notes played after Limbo’s show, artificial harmony whispers in the firmament, where one day it’ll revert to a recording of pandemonium, but why focus on Father Time’s eventual senility? This is a special moment, where an aimless traveler stays still to the greatest radio show nobody will ever see.
She was always searching for a voice to call her own.
The screaming corpses of stars remind the youthful firmament that all its vigor will drain to iron, it replies with a cry of defiant struggle, reverberating the black heavens with pained light. Fourteen forms a cemetery from the old glories.
And it is the compass to our humble theater in infinity.
So here is where harmony lies, the set for a play of disorder.
Our garden formerly known as Eden.
Her little odyssey in the big blue, falling upside down.
The world is seen in snapshots, playing out in front of the starry-eyed witness.
Found sister to the doll cameraman, 6.4 billion kilometers away.
Watching our absurd acts, she hopes to learn all the dear greetings that people spoke of in the letter.
Bit by bit, the script comes closer to her heart.
And wonders if she can join the musical.
Everywhere is a wonderland, she memorized the sights and songs throughout the world, keeping a little bit of culture and nature dear every time she visited a new corner. She meets new friends, who see her as a bit of an enigma. But they knew the nameless abnormality only for a fleeting moment, before she departs, leaving them a gift from the sky and a memory of music. Only then did they recall the good moments.
But there’s a sense of restlessness, dissatisfaction with her voice, a missing piece before she could fully express all her love for the world.
Met a tramp on her journey, an aimless wanderer just like her with the low-grade instrument he uses to express his soul, who advises her to follow the North Star. Pointing his finger to the brightest burning angel in her home.
Of course, she knows of Polaris, even if direction did not exist in the null sea.
North led her to winter. The friendly cold embraces its pristine child once more, reminding her of beyond the sunrise.
Ruins, mankind held an exponential bullet of the universe, a spinning wheel, and a hammer for the nail embedded at the perfect angle to fire a ricocheting shot through the sky.
Boiling water. Serving the hot tea of destruction.
Seldom remembered is the miniature end-times. Hidden under lock and key by the well-dressed men whispering sweet nothings.
In fields of asphalt and rebar, is the half-shrine to the cricket song of nuclear catastrophe.
And it’s very quiet.
In desolation, common sense dictates to flee to safety, but she held no concept of poison. A child immune to harm, the impossible wish of mother.
It’s a picnic, alone once more. Meditative, even in the wounded world. She saw every left-behind heirloom is immortalized in her amazed impression.
Here is her answer, left in haste after the fire.
Strings well tended, simple wood, preserved in a coating of dust, it’s the same phenotype of the old wig, though inferior, for the common man wishing to participate in aristocracy. To the voidborn child with no sense of direction, down might as well be the dream she ascends for.
The violin was to be her voice to the world.
She replays the songs in that meeting seen only by the dot, though never taught how to balance the weight on her shoulders with the graceful movements, it came naturally as breathing with her new fake lungs.
But she wasn’t satisfied with just mimicking the old works, not to just be a living radio, but an artist.
Adding her own touch, memories of the nostalgic abyss, of the colors entropy can never fully take away, of the stars forming a million of constellations in infinite shapes, and the cradle of celestial air that birthed the grandparents of everything.
It’s a show of all her passion, manifesting the images of her childhood in the homeland that bears no love for its children. She’s a cosmonaut always destined to see this country.
Her audience is the blasted heath and the infected forest. A solitary performance, the bluebird whose song was the incorrect frequency to all the other singers, yet it continues to express itself, and perhaps one day, another will call back with its own melody.
She recalls the words on the cover of that letter, “To The Makers of Music - All Worlds, All Times.”