except there's always a new cafe

Every new year they begin their fiscal calendar by revamping everything that ever was at the cafe between worlds, and for the new year that is doomed to be one filled with destruction and the end of everything, even Jesus, they decided to put in new blinds.  The blinds for the new year were literally blinding, made of a composite of gilt and the tears of a hundred undecided lovers, so that anyone spending too much time looking out the windows would be unable to see the forest for the trees, and fall into an incomprehensible and irreconcilable sadness.  They made an important business decision when they first opened, at the beginning of the fourth world in the calendar, when Cortez landed on the shores of the Americas and thought he could make something shiny and new based on betrayal.  Despite this beginning, the cafe was surprisingly empty of any traces of the spirit of spite or resentment, although it certainly is a place where the regulars can come to feel things again.

It is said that whenever there are combinations of gold and tears that certain spirits who rule over the human heart will come to inhabit and confuse, wherever appropriate.  And these spirits are not entirely appropriate in any way, except in their taste in shoes, but they do lack in the principles of social decorum, which is what makes them such enticing and entertaining company.

So it is that he found himself seated in front of a table of empty espresso cups, with a fresh spirit of betrayal and a keen desire to read his own future.  Even though it was still terribly early, there are already too many cups to discern a clear future, because chance would seem to want to make sure that the patterns were all different.  Only this is not the case this morning, because the gods of chance are here to make an annunciation for this next year of his life, and the messages in every cup are the same because the patterns of the grounds are all the same.

This is not supposed to be a good year for vague messages, and one in which those usual obscure flirts will not lead to any idea of something-somethings in the air, that's already so 2011, and it will fit him like a horrible leisure suit if he tries them on, and leisure suits are not proper for a motorcycle.  It is still much too cold.  In fact, he is starting to wonder if he will ever be warm again.  In fact, he is starting to wonder if all of this recent reborn hope and longing might have been a trick of the light.

In fact, that's entirely true, a trick of the light, in order to bring his body from a there to a here in a state of severe agitation, where everyone and everything around him seems empty and old.  It's not the worst way to begin another year, because such states are useful for either shedding skin or causing a kind of a severe stroke that is almost imperceptible, except that at this moment he thinks he is having a stroke but isn't awake enough to notice that the inside of his helmet is layered with old skin.  Enough to simply watch it shed and let it fall away, but he, oh he is much too much engaged in the process of mulling things over.

This rough beast is one that has been slouching for a very long time, and this is the morning when, while he is entirely focused on the slouching, the beast has decided to roll over and die for good, and it will be some time before he notices, because he is focused on the shoes of the beast and not the breath.  The breath is absent but the shoes are magnificent, oh so magnificent, with three inch heels and a lot of spike and spunk, and show a certain panache in design, just like the shoes the elves used to make.  The breath, on the other hand, is from other elves, the dead kind, and some days those are the only ones he can see.  Without giving away the ending (everyone dies), he doesn't notice yet that the red couch he is falling asleep upon is breathing more than the beast, and that's because the couch is living furniture.

He has not had to contend with living furniture for some time now, and the reason it's so necessary today is because the living things of this world are multiplying already, after only a few days in, because that much death and destruction, the kind that only a world's end would bring, there is a panic in all the kingdoms and the phylums, and this how that issue gets resolved.  It takes five goddesses to open a door, and it's the same for closing...and when they are reluctant, the door will not budge, and when it is something they all want in unison, then there is nothing that will keep the door solid, and when there is any conflict among them, the body starts to shake and shudder to reflect the indecision of the universe and this is why love is a shudder, because those shudders are the way the bird sheds her uncertainty and enters into the realm of something solid.

And when the conflict reaches a peak, then everything starts to come alive, and the more he avoids it, the more alive it gets, insistently calling him into the place where he is supposed to be living, and this morning there are red couches everywhere and they are all making him very anxious because they are ready to close one door and open another.

"It's not that hard," they tell him, but he cannot hear, because he does not expect it from a couch, so instead he interprets this as residue from something else, something else altogether and entirely different, that has also ceased to really matter.

Every goddess swings, and every heart swings, but it is like roulette, where eventually it has to land on a number, and he is acutely aware that he is not the one choosing, but the number, and his number is being played, and this makes him very resentful in the place of so many worlds.  The black birds come, because they always do, because they're good at it, and they come cleaning his heart, and this makes him even more anxious, because what happens after that has always been tumultuous in the past, the the past is the present.

It is 2012.  There are people raining outside.  This year will begin something extraordinary, something that hasn't happened yet, something that only exists in the sparks in the inner chambers of the heart, ready to pull, the dice or the gun loaded with powder that doesn't travel well, and doesn't stand the test of time, and the flashes of gunpowder are not enough to backfire on his head, but only enough to obscure the light, so that he thinks he is looking out the blinds too much, when, in fact, it is not not not not ever too much. 


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