-open-
They roam over the earth, singing their joyous opera; their fiendish cackle hovers in the wind long after they have left for different realities. They are prickly actors, who must have every last detail to their liking or else…
Burn it… Burn it all…
What if there are no ashes left when we are gone? What if the singers don’t leave their cloaks behind, and else take the whole theater down in cheers? No trace left of it? What stays behind them? The lone spectator, insistently clapping his hands to a cast too arrogant to return once more to the stage? That one, that lonely one, is burnt down – to ashes. He leaves a trail behind him, a trail that tells how the opera soloists raged upon him. They do not honor him – they would stand as low as him if they did. And those artists never stand low. How could them? Who would dare them? Who would approach the singing soloist, in her pure soprano voice that gives you shivers up your spine? Who would approach her, challenge her for a duel? Oh, but she’d look down the one who affected so; her ember gaze would tear his will down to a rant of crazed emotions, the fury of her wondrous song corrupting his being for all time. He would be left behind. But those who honor the flames never leave a trail – they are taken with the singers, they are part of the song itself. The song leaves no trace, but lingers for all eternity.
Lock.
-locked-
