Centuries they sat there, weaving a miasma of times past. Or minutes only, in which words were poured out, words that captivated and terrified them both. Maybe they are still sitting there, merely an instrument to a force old as memory. Captured were lives of heroes and powerful ideals and courage born of desperation laid out in a glittering web, hopeless tragedies and sweeping battles pulling in both storyteller and listener. Was I ever one of them? Could it have been I who sat there, hanging on the tales of a dead world? Arrogant, immature, manipulative, restless me with my spontaneous plans of mischief and impulsive outbursts! It hardly seems real, as if that too is only a myth. But what a myth! The ruthlessly cynical side of me insists that it was only a day and a night, foolishly spent in listening to a lunatic spinning pagan legends: It's stupid to be so caught up in the unreal as to forego sleep and food. Folly to be so engaged in a totally fictional past that at times I would gasp and hold my breath only to sigh in sympathy or relief. Then something in me would stir, and marvel that all this was being told to me by a god, a living breathing memory of times when reality and belief were one. It was hard to comprehend, so much so that even when I reminded myself of this it was more than my mind could do to grasp the idea. All I saw were the planes of his face, thrown into sharp relief by the bare lightbulb above us; long hands sculpting the air in front of him. I was hardly aware of where I curled on the rough sofa, watching Adesron staring past the shabby, unused room I had appropriated a few months ago. I had agreed to his story- if that's the right word for it- with a sort of disdain for such childish pastimes this ancient obviously loved. I don't know why I said yes in the first place, maybe it was the way he said "Would you like to hear a story?" with such gravity. As if he was offering me great treasure, priceless and then some. What kept me from getting bored or tired, or realizing cramps, hunger or anything was his eyes- almost more than his words. Now it seems airheaded and senseless... almost romantic. Romantic in a nobler way than I can relate to. An echo of chivalry and pointless nonsensicalities that somehow touched me. How? It's not like anyone ever accused me of having a heart. Surely these are not words ever used to by me. But strange as it sounds it was true, just like that day, just like my perculiar guest. And I have known the eyes of a god... When we had met his eyes had been an unremarkable greyish. Certainly nothing memorable. Once the tale of his world began he was like a different man. er, different boy. different god... oh whatever. I'm embarassing myself, the point is that something strange happened to both of us. I'm sure I was a child again. Rather, the child I had never been. And who can be cynical when time pauses and magic really does exist? That memory- hugging my knees to myself and captivated by his eyes; eyes like the rim of the Tartarus he spoke of. It was completely stunning, but in the end I was not numb and reeling, only wanting more. More of what I didn't know, but I could have sat there forever. The dawn was farther than any dawn before, when Eternity sat on the couch with us two. But dawn came with the end of Adesron's words, and not the other way around. When the open door shone golden and rosy light danced on the rusty stair rail, we still sat in the decripit room. The door to the outside faced east, away from the cry of the sea. The lumpy and fraying couch had once been deep green before being patched and stained by some previous owner. Shortly after the forgotten room had been quietly occupied, that couch and a solitary cardboard box that held my life had quietly disappeared before the garbage collector came. All signs of human habitation had been carefully situated away from all view the narrow space between two brick buildings afforded. Just in case a tourist happened to take a wrong turn and chanced to look up to where a fire escape led to a peeling door hanging off the hinges. The god and I sat there quietly, connected by the night behind us and seperated by the awkwardness of perfect strangers thrown together by some remarkably strange quirks of chance. Ever since he had disrupted my settled nomadic existence with an unwanted confession of divinity, I had been turned into a frog, almost hit by a trolley, gone oddly stoic and caring, cried for the first time in years, and been turned into a gibbering imbecile by a few words and a pair of eyes. Ugh. Just- ugh. The world is doing handsprings and headstands and all I can think of that makes any sense is that I really really want a hot shower and some coffee.