Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Blood. Crimson hue as over-familiar as dusk’s rising dew. And you, among the living, taken as single heart beats, enduring its coursing common surge with quiet dignity of stoic mean. And what of those, no longer fettered with the oppressive chains of mortality, who yet walk this earth? What of those, dead, who live among us?
How much can the soul stand, when one’s footsteps have themselves designed the path to Hell? What of the seduction of shadows, what of solitary destiny of so afflicted? Can one, beset by paranoia and self- inflicted pathos, escape a fundamental nature
And what of time, no longer bound by the constraints of mortality?
And what of the human mind, broad decades and gaunt centuries past its natural termination? What great tragedy plays out for those whose unnatural longings have left them standing on the shore, fingering their unused tickets to the Stygian ferry? What battle rages on that infernal beach, twixt aggressor and hostile force of will, leaving the sand soaked in innocent’s blood?
And what of the soul?
Enter Christoph, drifting through a surreal world. Frequenting an underground blood bar, where dance the damned denizens of the eternal night. They are a blood-drenched, vibrant lot, attempting, by turns, to reason, tempt and taunt Christoph into the underworld that he is fundamentally a part of. Can he escape who he is? Can he ever scrub the blood from his hands?