A MARBLE MAN IN A MASK
The punch bowl is still just punch, or at least the ones he’s been drinking from are. It’s not always so bad to be aware, he thinks, standing in a room like the ocean. How lovely is it to be in the water and breathe air, clear as daylight and perfumed with all manner of flowers and woods, frankincense and jasmine, myrrh and cinnamon. The horned stallion makes his way to a globe filled with a particularly shimmery fish, circling aimlessly in its minute orb of existence. I wonder where they got you from. Were these fish swimming freely hours early? Or were they created for this moment, illusions only, set to expire at the night’s conclusion? It was almost a sad thought, thinking that these fish, so beautiful, and seemingly so alive, could be gilded lies, dead at dawn. El Toro makes his way to another globe, filled with only water, but it lacks the interest of a living thing. Looking upon a fish makes him ask questions, looking upon contained water makes him bored. The seed is planted; the question of illusion or reality disturbs his fun. ”I oughtta get a real drink.” He no longer wishes to be aware.
@Avdotya
"What I say,"
What I think,
