Prophecy #14
Concerning Mammon
The world was a bubble.
A soapy illusion.
It was just color. It was just the shine on a coin, glittering in the empty room.
It was just a spreading rainbow. A puddle of used motor oil smearing black pavement. A striped cobra wrapped around the world, hugging it tightly in its warm, squeezing embrace of death.
Unhinging his body, like the snake could its mouth, the cloaked figure disjointed into numerous illusions.
Clones—like bubbles floating in the air—so many. They shined like the inside of an oyster shell.
That lucid mother-of-pearl. That oil. Old old oil.
Pop!
A murmur ricocheted through the crowd.
Pop!
Pop!
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And he was alone yet again.
The crowd?
Dead?
Sure.
Why not.
It was all an illusion, anyway.