Little pigs, french hens, a family of bears. Blind mice, musketeers, the Fates. Parts of an atom, laws of thought, a guideline for composition. Omne trium perfectum? Create your own group of threes, and describe why and how they fit together.
DARK SKY, ROOFTOP, AND A CUP OF WARM CHOCOLATE
I am a sky-gazer traipsing all over fantasy. I am not an astronomer; I cannot even tell the difference between Scorpius and Leo. But the dark sky is always my friend-first of triplet. With its queenly mystery of life and death, its myths of Greek and Romans, its dust and its past, the sky-only the dark one-watched my journey down here at the inner realm. Neath was a fond biosphere to write a stanza of broken heart or a life-of-clown play. Nothing better, was only in the dark, behind the tiny beam of moonlight striking the rooftop's naked floor.
Rooftop itself came second. Whether outside my room or over the fortieth floor of The Marbella Suites, it belonged to me. For the sake of my relentless love to the Kingdom of Dark Horizon, I befriended the tall building's rooftops whose license allowed me to settle under some million-year old stars. The surface scenery, seen from the upper state of inner realm, aroused the sleeping souls whose names as uncounted as numbers of galaxy. Awakened, the souls-inside me-floated between two ends of a stage unseen by ordinary, which was lined from the dorm's laundry room to the Mount Tangkuban; as a Titanic captain or as the Louis XIV or as political philosopher, or sometimes as only "nothing observing everything", they breezed in my lobes. They had the talent only told by creationists: making up a life out of nothing. Imagination. The ultra-mundane projection grasped inside palms and cords, which broke out the norm, and neither felt wrong nor fake.
When it was late and my eyelids began scratching my eyeballs, my last crew served inside a glass-made battalion: warm dark-toned liquid chocolate and a long white strew effortlessly sneaking out of the cup. I, seated in wired thoughts, still wrote my half-filled papers. Dear Nottes. Painting of human's minds. Cannizzaro Reaction's Summary. Fear of Democracy. Review: Simavne Kadısı Oğlu Şeyh Bedreddin Destanı. I glanced off the reality and rushed into rainbow, unicorn, and knowledge (another omne trium perfectum?). I often pushed my knuckles to hug the pen tightly, while skimming the passages, dreaming of unforeseen nature, wondering the next idea to come by, but, most of the time, I let the letters shaped their own words, the words their own sentences, the sentences their own story. I did not claim myself as a novelist or poet or the political philosopher; those required hard works, while I was in a flow. I was better to be called a wonderer-with pen and paper-in a labyrinthine adventure.
Hours flew. I was on the edge of lines and words, mimicking my character's expressions and voices, and speaking out loud my essay preaches. I watched the clock ticked, the haze fell, and then my skin began chafing my vessels. I walked inside as the dark sky folded. Stars-I mean, planets-shifted. Rainbow and unicorn and Jean Valjean vanished-asleep. But fantasy never escaped. Sempiternal: it lasted. If not in the mind, then on the papers.
DARK SKY, ROOFTOP, AND A CUP OF WARM CHOCOLATE
I am a sky-gazer traipsing all over fantasy. I am not an astronomer; I cannot even tell the difference between Scorpius and Leo. But the dark sky is always my friend-first of triplet. With its queenly mystery of life and death, its myths of Greek and Romans, its dust and its past, the sky-only the dark one-watched my journey down here at the inner realm. Neath was a fond biosphere to write a stanza of broken heart or a life-of-clown play. Nothing better, was only in the dark, behind the tiny beam of moonlight striking the rooftop's naked floor.
Rooftop itself came second. Whether outside my room or over the fortieth floor of The Marbella Suites, it belonged to me. For the sake of my relentless love to the Kingdom of Dark Horizon, I befriended the tall building's rooftops whose license allowed me to settle under some million-year old stars. The surface scenery, seen from the upper state of inner realm, aroused the sleeping souls whose names as uncounted as numbers of galaxy. Awakened, the souls-inside me-floated between two ends of a stage unseen by ordinary, which was lined from the dorm's laundry room to the Mount Tangkuban; as a Titanic captain or as the Louis XIV or as political philosopher, or sometimes as only "nothing observing everything", they breezed in my lobes. They had the talent only told by creationists: making up a life out of nothing. Imagination. The ultra-mundane projection grasped inside palms and cords, which broke out the norm, and neither felt wrong nor fake.
When it was late and my eyelids began scratching my eyeballs, my last crew served inside a glass-made battalion: warm dark-toned liquid chocolate and a long white strew effortlessly sneaking out of the cup. I, seated in wired thoughts, still wrote my half-filled papers. Dear Nottes. Painting of human's minds. Cannizzaro Reaction's Summary. Fear of Democracy. Review: Simavne Kadısı Oğlu Şeyh Bedreddin Destanı. I glanced off the reality and rushed into rainbow, unicorn, and knowledge (another omne trium perfectum?). I often pushed my knuckles to hug the pen tightly, while skimming the passages, dreaming of unforeseen nature, wondering the next idea to come by, but, most of the time, I let the letters shaped their own words, the words their own sentences, the sentences their own story. I did not claim myself as a novelist or poet or the political philosopher; those required hard works, while I was in a flow. I was better to be called a wonderer-with pen and paper-in a labyrinthine adventure.
Hours flew. I was on the edge of lines and words, mimicking my character's expressions and voices, and speaking out loud my essay preaches. I watched the clock ticked, the haze fell, and then my skin began chafing my vessels. I walked inside as the dark sky folded. Stars-I mean, planets-shifted. Rainbow and unicorn and Jean Valjean vanished-asleep. But fantasy never escaped. Sempiternal: it lasted. If not in the mind, then on the papers.