Current location:	Griffin Manor
Current mood:	contemplative

Cold Stone Arena
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Some things happened exactly as we remember them.
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In 1975 everything shifted for a moment and I beheld sparks in the air filtered through a legion of stars. Hyperprism acrylic casting yellow-orange shadows on the grey-green tiles as I lay in the cold stone arena watching the images flash across my eyes. Waft of mildew mingled with gardenia and cool breeze gave way to the ripples on the surface of the special pool (which, although obscured by a plethora of other boys, was a knowing witness to these proceedings, as noted in an earlier report). I could feel the quickening pulse of my flesh synchronizing with the flashing lights that permeated the scene as sweat beaded and dripped like the dew that formed on gardenia blossoms in the dawnlight. A dozen or so boys gathered to watch, to behold the spectacle, to record the moment like frames from a silent picture cast from the eyes of vaudevillian monarchs spreading more of their scent through the air with each flutter of their magnificent wings. (As an aside, let me note here that I willingly participated in this experiment, casting off any suspicions that there may have been even the slightest bit of coercion on the part of my involved fellows.) It was a moment of such clarity, of such indefinable beauty, so as to dispel even the boldest of mockers from speaking ill against me for recalling it. Here we were one, and still totally isolate, giving birth to that truest of mysteries: "we are connected". Lust patterned after light. Transference of liquid. Rippling pool then dawn's dew. Energy encapsulated then dispersed. And we are infinite, so that we can eternally choose our position in time and in space. Eternal. Infinite. Cold stone arena, 1975, and liquid.
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FCGST (sensory mode drifting in shadows)
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