…and as the Eye of Equal Opportunity sweeps the sky, the Iris shoves focus into its pores, that goat horn comes into clear view, and a deep raspy voice asks a question that echoes through the eternal corridors of Melancholia, “But where did it come from?”
Paper chess figurines float through the air over some dry bushes, burnt coal matches, rusty hacksaws and torn circus posters. From the railings, the smiling face of a Cyclops declares that the random viewer, whoever he might be, is in fact, Melancholia itself. An olive-colored rock stares at the poster, a guilty blue orchid stretching into a smile from one of its cracks. The special tactics unit slowly approaches the orchid, blazing guns choking their hands, and with due diligence reaches for the tender flower. Then, the wind wavers, the orchid shakes and the special tactics unit goes pale, then drops dead to the ground. As the evening approaches, the orchid grows ever more beautiful.
Meteor showers spray through the eye of a stray dog, lighting up the sky with the fierceness of a chimera gone wild. For a wink, these showers could pass for the real thing, but it’s obvious as the crystal shards fall flat on the ground and we see them for the human remains they are. It’s s a new kind of warfare this, where no politician hides behind his people. In fact, the new fire guns use the people themselves as bullets and cannonballs. Just because they’re broken, it doesn’t mean they cannot be useful. So, we get these 2 AM pretend meteor showers made of screams, fired up in the air as warning shots from our neighbors. Well, the dull anchorman from the plasma screen says we only have one neighbor we need to be afraid of, but I know better, you know better, everyone knows better. We’re all each other neighbors and there’s no stopping us. The Big Hum is opening somewhere and we can already feel the rock tissue pushing in on us. Let the showers begin.
Arch of negativity stretches across the sky, like a rainbow made of steel gray colors. It sucks the whole city, heart and soul. The dailies don’t pay any attention and continue with the babble surrounding the near East and other irrelevant matters. It’s not like anyone will die – they will merely fall apart and disappear. There will be no new graves dug up, no new obituaries, and certainly no farewell dinners. And besides, who doesn’t fall apart is turned into a rock, at least for ten or so hours. “Rock is good,” graffiti says near the city’s center. A bronze cow seems to be sleeping, and doesn’t notice anything.
But whiteness is not the end. In the distance, Allen can notice a crack in the whiteness, so thin it is understandable how he missed it initially. He floats to it, touches the crack, which really feels like it belongs to some wall, yet there is no wall and the crack floats freely in the air, much like Allen himself. He wonders for a second; scratches his head, particularly that itchy spot right above his right ear; and then tries for the clear shot: swings with his leg and smacks the crack right in the middle. Pieces of paint and concrete fall down in eternity and now there is a hole gaping back at Allen. There is something on the other side of the wall, and it has horns.
