Soaked To The Skin

Through the Cantina door I stumble out into the street; beneath cones of silver gaslight and plumes of spinning snow. The snow is kicked up in the air, and from the position I stand it looks like groups of enormous tumble weeds, spinning and expanding among the buildings. The air is thin with winter, unlike the Cantina who’s atmosphere was thick with humanity; rich with laughter, chatter, and music; and heavy with greasy presence; a million and a half points of stimulous demanding attention and notice, wrapping shackles and chains around my brain and forcing my lips to the bottomless harmonicca. Outside, the bleak air of the winter’s night is free and twisting and formless, and among this air I sail like nightingale. I feel wings clutch me by the shoulders, and lift me into the endless swirling white..

A song begins to play in my head, like a lullaby, as physical sensations begin to fade, one by one. The perception of the air as cold and unforgiving begins to soften, mix, and dissapate. My eyes lose focus, and the howling of the winter gail melts into white noise. My toes drag along in the snow, leaving crooked lines like broken skis, as my wings carry me down the muffled sidewalk. The Voice speaks to me, not kindly but beautifully, and I nod as though I’m actually listening with intent to remember.

"My son, heed my words, for within them is a gift for you."
"Yes Father, go on."
"I want you to cover your eyes with your left hand until you can see only a fraction of what is in front of you."
"Yes Father, go on."
"I want you to collect things that you are fond of with your right hand, and place them within that fraction of sight."
"Yes Father, go on."
"With your left leg I want you to steady yourself against pressure mounting behind you."
"Yes Father, go on."
"With your right leg I want you to kick the precious things you have organized as hard as you can."
"Yes Father… by why?"

"Because I haven’t the strength to do it myself."