He listens to the cries.
Stripped down to wind and earth, the heart beats incessantly, instantly regretting its successes and listening to the failures. As it loses its color and turns to wine, money falls from the skies to blanket the clouds and make people smile again.
And there he stands.
Blood is blue for a day, though it turns green on St Patrick's Day, or so his mind reminds him. He's not really listening but he hears his tears, singing and clinging as they crawl and fall. Within moments, his head pounds and the bodies fall through again.
And there he stands.
Scars are riddles, seen but not known or comprehended, so he passes the time by counting the crisscrossing lines and guessing their various names. Their creator merely watches, playing with toys of steel that glint happily in moonlight and flash angrily during the day.
And soon, he'll sleep.
With voices singing and playing, he will dream many dreams, dreams that overlap and condense. He never has any quiet, for the voices always cry, always see and hear, and he must share in their joy and pain. He must, for whatever God up there says so. He decided he'd help hurt God today.
And soon, he'll sleep.
Though it will take awhile. It always does. Sometimes only hours, sometimes days. It matters on his mood, or so he says. Or was it one of the voices? He never really knows.
And he contemplates.
Or is it him? Or is it another? He rubs his head, for when he asks, he gets to many answers. Or does he? He doesn't really know anymore.
And he contemplates some more.
He doesn't know what to think, so he wanders. While he's walking up the ceiling, he sees his friend again. He smiles, and soon, his smile turns to a smirk, for he has found something to contemplate again. His friend smirks back, and images rush in. They'll be hurting God again today.
He traces the scars.
Heat contrasts the cold room, just as fire does ice, and it amuses him to make these thoughts at such a time. But he does not even know if it's his thought, so he focuses on other things, such as the slimy feeling dripping down his skin or the golden gaze that lazily follows his own to the color splashed across the walls.
He traces the scars.
He smiles as he sits next to his friend, who is now playing with his toys. He grins as his friend makes red. Just a regular day for them, where the sun falls before the sky turns blue.
He traces the scars.
His friend looks at him. "Want to hurt God again?" He nods before leaning back, closing his eyes to see the stars. For a moment, he and his friend connect, and for a moment, it's quiet. They see red again.
He listens to the cries.
