VI’IZIAIGO AH-OHH!
VIEZIAAGAO EE-OUAHOH!
YV’EEZHIPAR KHA-EROH!
ARRAT! ARRATA!
GHAR-ARIH-EEV’PAR-ATTA!
GHOU-TARO-ERO’ZH-MARA!
EE-AINOU!
ARO-AHO-IHO-VIZIGA’AO!
–the blades of light cut through the air and the angels sang, oh, the angels sang, for hours in the splitting folding collapsing pocket of eternity in the calling itself–
–his eyes clinked open–
–he felt cold–
The room snapped back into focus and the angelic light no longered covered the cieling tiles, or slightly dusty walls. there was a glare, off some dark glass in a pane on the wall. There was a halo of light, and a figure obscured by shadow all but for his white gloved hands.
And his Instrument.
–[as-if-recalled] those first few hours, those first few crashing pockets of eternities that mish-mash together in the cauling of a consciousness itself…are so important for beings that do not physiologically grow…if they were to have the power of speech, their wailing could tear a hole; you must let it gestate in silence. Those first few hours must be whole…[/as-if-recalled]–
The Instrument jumps with blue-purple electricity. The scene goes dark, as the eyes begin to glow.
He sits up, and swings his grey and blue legs over the edge of the insulated metal table. He reaches out and accidentally knocks over a table of beekers. He looks at his hands. The man in the shadows, he can see from the silouette and the gloved hands, is not like him. There is something…softer…in the gloved set of hands.
Something that glowed beneath the latex and the fabric…
The Instrument jumped and cracked like a a semiautomatic tattoo gun.
–Darkness again…–
