I cut the cheese, slab it on a cracker, then realize suddenly, that I don't like Brie, that I never have, but find it clumping down my throat all the same. I put the knife down with respect, and move toward the window. Somebody said something about an eclipse, but I can't see it. Maybe we're on the wrong side of the building.

Standing in front of the window, my eyes focus on the reflection of the people inside. Each has her own low-cut gown, in an effort to prove the power they have over the men who rose with them in the elevator. It doesn't work on me, though. Not anymore.

"Why're you standin' over here, all dull and stuff?"

I turn away from the window a moment, and innately glance above the cut of her dress. Absolutely no reaction.

"Hm?"

"Where's your girl? You don't come here dressed like that, and --"

She found a way to get to me. I guess it's like that with all of them. Consciously or not, they find a way. My gaze returns to the reflection of each human star. Behind me, I hear a brief gasp.

What an asshole! Yeah, like I didn't see you look at me like that. Y'think girls don't notice that crap? Jeez. Ooo...look at that guy! I wonder how much --

I want to kill her. I'd perfectly forgotten about everything, until she flashed her smile, and said that. Don't even know why I come to these things anymore. Aside from the music. There's these two cellists - three would probably satisfy some kind of universal law - they're playing these pulsating, droning notes, their bows slicing back and forth across the tendons...strings. Everyone's transfixed by it, even the albino and his gathering.

That's odd. There's applause, and it feels like I've been holding down the floor for an hour, but the cellos have ceased, and the party slowly dies away. In the elevator, I run into that ignominy from before, we, the only people sheathed in by the metal doors. I'm sure she thinks it's awkward.

Hi, asshole. I guess nobody pushed you out the window.

I release the button, smile curtly at her, and find myself rewarded with unnoticing eyes. There's no end to the scab of my memory she's picking at. Maybe if I whistle...

Oh god... Thanks for making me deaf! Why can't that stupid music come on, the one time it'd actually help.

She's gotta appreciate me. Too bad I'll never see her again, in a few floors.

I unclip my bowtie, which falls through my hands. My right cuff exposes a little wrist, as I bend down, and I can feel her eyes on me. For some reason, she flinches, and the doors open, and she's gone. Goodbye to you, too.

The birches bend left and right, swinging around the walkway. Some person walks toward me, twirling a furry thing that's wrapped around her neck. Her footfalls break off a span before me, and I see her blood. Blushing.

"So you're just gonna stand there?"

"I don't know you."

"I like that."

She looks at my watch and shoes, but she can't see through my pants.

"Look, I just finished blowing some guy," how quaint, "okay, so I dunno." The furry thing goes limp over her chest, and she pulls her hair back into a ponytail. "I just wanna talk. My line of work, I don't get to do that, unless it's me faking, or whatever. You up for a little company?"

I put a hand in my pocket. "If you want to know the truth, it makes no difference to me."

You tough fucker, you. I love it!

She turns and starts walking, talking. Guess I'm supposed to follow her. We click-clack across the asphalt a bit, the wind trying to fend through the trees. Should've worn a heavier coat.

"--yourself?"

Wasn't listening. Just fake it. "Yeah, you know how it is." I'm sure she'd appreciate the irony, if she knew.

"What...?" Oh well. "You're not listening to me." She sighs, as if I'm supposed to feel apologetic, or something. "I was asking what you do with yourself."

"Get up. Wash up. Grow up. Dull life, really."

"No girl to straighten you out, huh?" Maybe I should just buy a ring, or a pitbull. "That's too bad. You're pretty wha!" Tripped on a branch, Lips? Sometimes, dead wood can be a good thing. Except in her profession, really.

"Ow, shit! My ankle's twisted." I feel a hand on my arm for support. No. "Can you help me to the bench over there?" No.

"No."

"What the fuck?"

"I can't. It's enough that you've walked with me. Anything more, and that meter in your head's gonna start running, and you'll want me to fork over fifty bucks to bench your ass, instead of screwing it." I walk away. "Goodnight."

Bastard.

Just as her whimpering breaks off, I see the edge of the park, and then I see a mugger. If there's a goddess of whores, she's on her back right now, paying me a smile.

"Give it to me."

"Come and get it."

Apparently, my tone didn't phase him, because he's glaring. What? Oh, this is good: "I'll cut you, guy, I swear! I swear, I will!"

He swipes at me, a trail dripping over my chest. Someone's waiting for something, but it's not me. I don't really move.

Like the idiot he is, the mugger lets his knife crash to the earth. "Shit!" He might be a crappy thief, but he's no liar - he swore, just like he said he would.

I place my fingers over the knife, and lift it. A beam of moonlight blasts off the blade into my eyes. All those birches start getting dizzy, my chest wants to pour, and I don't know why. I drop to the ground, careful not to bruise the knife. Clearing my eyes, there's a... Down the walkway, beyond the dark, I see her.

Then I lose.

Waterfalls. Water flies, birds heard owl water drip-drops. Bathe. Long and sharp, shiny. So shiny in the dark. Yes!

Ride the light and welcome
Let it touch your tongue
Feel the way the wind felt
Sucking out your lung

Bring her to your cottage
Dance a pirouette
Peer around her bra-strap
Make her nice and wet

Ride the mount and come well
As you melt the eagle
She will ring her own bells
Steeling such a steeple

Be the first to wake her
Make clean a sharp divide
Then you will bathe in glory
Mortality aside

Black done gone forth. Going sploosh. Upright light open up up. Granite taste rise eyes silver. Wet...

I hear it, before I see it. The fountain. Then the whore. "--why I bother. Guess I'm just a good girl."

The words: I remember them. They bang around inside my head, trying to make sense. I see the woman, I see the words, but I don't know how. I want to know. "I saw her..."

My eyes flutter open, the eclipse is over, "almost broke the other heel getting to you," and she's not listening. I wonder how much of her chatter I was lucky to miss.

What's the solution? "And she said, 'There's more money in it if you,'" shut up. Please, I'm trying to think, here.

There are these moments in my life - they don't happen often - when I'm sitting on a bus, or on the toilet - come to think of it, I have to take a crap; gotta hold it - moments when a point of light screams at my subconscious, tearing open the truth. For an instant, I can see it all. Believe, realize, know. It's all there. But because they're these big secrets, they only touch my mind for a second, and then they're gone.

This was one of those moments, much longer, and lucid. Or getting there. If I could only figure out -- "Shit, you're still bleeding!" She looks at my chest, and rips off my shirt. Fearless, this one. "Gotta put pressure on it, or," oh great; it's that damn furry thing, "you'll bleed to death."

There we go. Yes! I now personally nominate prostitutes as the smartest creatures on earth, as silly as that sounds. Pulling myself up, I grab her by the neck, and kiss her. "Whoa whoa whoa! What the heck was that?"

I can't sit around here anymore. The moon's still awake, and for the first time, so am I. "I've gotta go."

"Don't move! I'll go call an ambulance, and they'll take you --"

"No, I'm going home."

"Look, buddy, they're gonna toss you in a box, if you don't get patched up by a doctor in a few seconds!" Why do they always overreact? It's not like this hasn't happened before. I just remember the words this time. Her song.

I make it to my knees, splash some water on my face, and feel facial hair starting to creep out. That can't be right. I only just shaved before the party. Can't stand it. Definitely have to get home, get to the straightedge.

She's saying something to me, but I don't care.

Get home before the moon dies.

Now that, I heard. And miraculously enough, it's when this woman here wasn't yapping away. This was a new voice. Something primal, vibrant. I don't often feel scared, but I do now. I love it. Fear is the final freedom. It means there's something out there I don't understand, and the only way I can cheat this feeling is through knowing. The only thing I've ever intimately known is...oh, and that, too. Best not to think of that right now. I have a different feeling biting into my heart. Bye.

"Don't thank me too fast, now!" Moonbeams shine down on her - a gift. I feel a little lighter, running. Whether it's love, the loss of blood, or the wallet that whore stole from me, I don't know. But I will.

"Sorry, but I have to go to the bathroom!"

Crazy fuck...

Oh great. The lights went out. My smell's just starting to stink up the place, and wouldn't you know it, I'm in the stall with an empty roll. Improvise. It's time I let the boys hang loose for a while, anyway. Zipping up my pants, I... "Raaah!" Forgot to tuck.

"You alright over there, buddy? Sure smells like shit in here, huh?" I didn't think I was in a grade school bathroom, but that revelation forces me to reconsider. After my boxers suffocate the toilet, I step toward the sliver of light smiling under the door. Can't lather up in the dark.

But beneath the staged lights, I see leather. And a whip. Cat costume - forgot I'd pounced in here. Someone should tell her to dye down there, too. Not a real redhead. The whip cracks, cracks, cracks, cracks. Like I need to be reminded I just came from the crapper. Have to get home.

"Iiiiiiiiiiit's happy hour!" A daze of mesmerized eyes tear themselves from the parting catwalker, and pull their owners to the bar, which I happen to be standing in front of. Thankfully, none of the forest brushes against my leg, but someone grabs my shoulder, and pushes me into a chair. Not an easy thing to do, but drunkenness yields bold holds and dread breaths. Breasts hide under twirly tassels, as another girl dances down the dock. I try to get up, but my company pulls me down again.

"Have a drink! 'Son me!" I lift my hand and shake my head, but he encourages. "Come on, I can't drink alone!"

I turn to a neighbouring table and deprive it of water. "Will this do?"

"Yes! Fine, yes."

He appears to have more grit on his chin than whateverhernameis does down there, up there. I dive my fingers into the wetness and slosh them around, trying to decontaminate them. There's no soap, and half the women in this elevated parade haven't heard of the invention, either, so I can live without, under the certain stances.

My companion appears to have gotten off - whether to dreamland or disillusionment, I can't say. I found both earlier, and I must get her back. The moon is dying.

I quietly slide out my chair, which wakes him. "Sit, sit!" and I wish I had my knife, because I half-want to slit him. "You drinking that?"

Ah, wonderful! "Be my guest." He takes my water glass, downing every delectable drop. I want to tell him. Really. So I do.

"Gimme, gimme!" He didn't hear what I did with the water, but I can see what the stagegirl's done to his pants, and he's clambering up there, the stubbled compass. The bouncer bounces up, bounding with him to the floor, before introducing him to the door. I feel lonely.

As if in answer, the broad skylight above the room drives a moonbeam through every glass. The surrounding electricity dies, and I bathe in the warm glow, no longer wanting to leave. My eyelids curtain. A musician plucks harp strings in a recording studio that fall out of the surround sound, out of the twilight. I notice my arms, from the way their hair erects. The bartender does not move. The bouncer does not move. Heaven holds its breath.

And she walks. Barefoot in moonlight, slowly. Her toes twinkle, hover, and my eyes roll higher. Above the ankle, above the knee, the thigh - all about her body, a sheer, glittering veil. Across her eyes rests a mask of porcelain, a shield I dare not touch.

Fingers file down the harp and she kneels down with them. Her hands my hands meet her neck, sliding round, down to her thighs and she arches her back, my fingers fall, she arches her back, unfolds her thighs to me, the brightness, legs sprawled, in moonlight, bathing in her, looking into me, commanding, invoking, sheathing, she, the moon, rises, comes down, a moan to signal every passing day. Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. The harp, reaching the breadth of its innermost string, breaks.

My head is soaked. I'm lying on a dock, and the final raindrop decides to land on me. The clouds remain.

I had a taste of that truth-tearing moment. She shared it with me, teasing, knowing I'd want more. I do.

Legs won't move. Don't know how long I'd been stuck under the rain. I prop myself up, turn over. There's a dark man looking at me, from the door of his shed. He moves inside, leaving it open. It doesn't seem like I'll make it home anytime soon, and the sky's ready to bark again, so I crawl up and away from the sea, reenacting evolution.

Slithering into the shed, I stare at the man through my dangling hair. The torn shirt clings to me, to the red streak I earned earlier from the mugger. Why did I come?

My silent host creaks the door shut, moving back to the opposite side of the room. Two candles sit next to each other between us, to let me see his face about as much as he can see mine. He hands me a mug. I drink. The candles flicker together, their light, out of focus, and I lay my head down. Before my lids lock, I see the man, grinning.

An instant later, they're open. I'm sitting up in front of a bustling fire, shirtless, like the man beyond the flame. He sees what I've done to my body, but says nothing. The room is not the room. I am not myself. His lips are motionless.

"There are two things that all must master: when to speak and when to act.

"A young man rides into a caravan in search of water. There are tents of shrouded men, men with ready blades. He does not fear these men, and suffers only from an unbearable thirst. A guard approaches him and asks his name.

"'I am tired,' he says. 'Show me to your master's tent, and let me have some water, for my mouth is parched, and my brow burns.'

"The guard leads the youth unannounced to his master, for he has no name to introduce the visitor. He explains this to his lord, who does not rise. 'Who are you, that would trespass in my tent so boldly?'

"The youth bows, paying homage to the master. 'Forgive me, lord, for I am thirsty. I have traveled too long over the land, past snake and scorpion, and ask your hospitality, that I may rest my weary feet.'

"The master questions him again. 'Then I would have your name, for I have many enemies among these dunes, and must protect my daughter and my men from those who seek to end my days.'

"Once more does the young man bow, out of respect. 'Gracious host, I am no enemy of yours, nor do I wish harm upon your kind. Allow me but a drink and a place to rest and I will trouble you no further.'

"Losing patience, the master rises, and inquires a final time. 'Speak your name, or I shall run you through, and grind your bones to paste.' He summons his company of men to the tent, their swords bared, waiting.

"The visitor bows. 'Though I have shown you respect, you have repaid me with malice. So I do answer with the same, and end your days, for I am the Sun, keeper of the desert, and your master.' When he rises, the flesh of every man is set alive with flame.

"The ruler of the sky takes the master's daughter as his mate, burning his spirit into her. She takes her place in the heavens, shining coldly, a blade of warning to those who dare to live beneath her sleeping mate."

The fire dims, and I lose sight of the dockside man. I believe I smell a spent candle, but there's no one else in the shed. My clothes are somehow dry, so I must've been lying here a while. I push myself up and open the door. It's still dark outside. But the moon is out.

Can't afford to live under the sun anymore. Especially since I don't have a wallet. Could've made my trip home a lot easier. The walk gives me time to think, though, and she keeps me company on a clear night.

Every day holds a desert of liars. People spend all their days shoveling away the truth, mindless robots drowning in their own sand. "Eat. Sleep. Work. Fuck," they drone, so that another generation can go through the same checklist. They keep asking what the secret to life is, but they don't realize that the question is the answer. Someone has to show them how it's done, how to get there. I'm ready.

The stairs bring me closer to it and to her. I enter my chamber, and remove my clothes, the last memories of dark humanity. I lift the chosen blade from its case, and take a moment to honour its role in my goal. I climb the stairway to the roof, and feel her pure warmth on my skin. I hold the blade up to her, and she blesses it. I lie down, and cut myself a sharp line from foot to thigh, each side. I bleed. I let the edge slide from each hand to my shoulders. And I bleed. I slice open my stomach. And I bleed. I rend open my chest. I bleed, and I scream. I scream out to her, and I scream, and I scream! I bleed until I see her reflection in the blood around me, and I scream.

I scream, because I am alive. I am red, I am naked, I am bleeding, and I see you! I see you smile.

This story is a prosaic invigoration of John Keats' four-part epic poem, Endymion.

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