Out the contingent stream of time, I emerged, skipping with unwary jollity into the farthest beyond of the closest unknown, straddling contentious comets, shooting across galactic basins, tipping over celestial peripheries, surging forth with importunate choler, revering the feckless dance of planets, rekindling, along the spiraling swerves of the darkest inferences, neonatal nuclear torpedoes with traitorous ministration, undulating about with frenetic allegiance to weightlessness, obfuscating litanies proffered about the origin of the universe with innocuous absurdities from back home, riddling with that deep space spin of geometric coherence, zipping over multiverses shelved within ebony brackets, through vacuous corridors of sublime levities, and finally approached the lobby, ineffable in its monolithic construct and transgalactic aestheticism, for the containment and cognitive appeasement of orphaned spacemen.
The bucolic motel in the middle of nowhere offered no privacy for its stranded guests, for striated beams of lunar concoctions, translucent due to its foamy integrants, embroidered the edges of walls that lay open, with immodest latency, onto innominate territories that lay ceaselessly unrolled over the concealed lawns of truth, sans any appetite for light. I shuddered, and ripples widened from around my throbbing veins in concentric spheres of substantial mass, buoying me further upwards, as if in processional ascendance, towards a stellar façade of a ceiling with nebular artifice hammered onto, and minuscule black holes perforating, the cosmic paneling of its ostentatious display.
I silenced the fuming turgidity of my cerebrum, gathered into a shapeless blob the revered molecules of my intellect, and glided down the hall of moaning echoes to reclaim the luxuries my destiny had made aware in its sagacious wake.
It was then, with a momentous awakening of the constellational runes, that the most disciplined strands of horsehair kissed the taut liquidity of caduceus strings, when the consummate cellists, gods on strings, commenced their play, when their flawless fingering became the visible concomitant of a talent perfected, when the averred beauty of their inimitable prowess became an asperity that could not be contained by the gratuitous argosy of their emotional recipients, and when the instrumental demiurges engineered into perfection the cogwheels that evinced the possibility of afflatus apotheosis.
The numen of the spatial stronghold in which I had ensconced the amorphous ethos of my existence was alleviated to a divinity so incalculable that numbers shied away from an accurate rendering of the figure, with a glow so blinding that the darkness wallowing me in quivered ignominiously before dissipating itself into wisps of lukewarm vileness, having reacted with the greatest pungency towards the exhaustive spillage of flavorous morality.
I froze, assuaged every departing strain of dismay at being deformed by transdimensional influences, and swayed my quantum remnants to what euphonious splendour rode upon cosmic waves to diffuse about my sensory apertures.
It was as though mellifluous dragons were gripped by their jaws and slain into melody by gleaming swords that ripped apart orchestral organs at the demand of the knights. It was a salutary largesse, of a grade so sacrosanct, blessed upon a spirit lost to the brazen cries of glorious immortality, transcending the wonderment of the most complex legerdemain the universe has ever prided itself in association with.
I wept ethereal tears; tears that coalesced into torrential showers of ecclesiastical opulence, tears that dribbled down into gravitational depressions, to later trickle as glistening rivulets toward heavenly drains, tears that leaked through the fabric of space, plunging like needles into the shallower known with suzerain meekness, taunting paper boats of exhausted eccentricity sailing atop the lolling waters with augurs of savage cascades ahead.
Nectar and ambrosia had melded unto each other, their molecular interstices accommodating the ingredients of the other, beset with palindromic romance, exploding with genteel peal, reverberating with a sense of extended frisson, and blasting apart unctuous lineages of bedeviling ideals into sixteen quadrillion particles by its very aroma.
Nirvana, and the unequivocal state of homeostasis, I furnished with ascetic concordance atop the mountain of my will, delving deep into myself in search of the simmering artifacts left behind by music that was born in deep space, unbeknownst to the zealots of mediocrity imprisoned within atmospheric globes and elliptical mazes, unfazed by life that was everything but glorious.
The sight of the two cellists floating about space and time in their solar hammocks, basking in their own reminiscent glory, was a sensorial trope to be accounted with the beauty heralded by the cathartic complexity of life. They had harnessed the rage of the sun, allowing for musical flares of such beauty to enervate our hearts as to deem the trial of breathing a necessary deterrent. My feelings, jolted to ecstatic tenors of distilled ebullience, pampered by the flawless calibrations of auditory sceneries, calmed the tremors within my bones, guarding its brittleness with the electric tendons of fiery muscles.
It was a marriage of the minds, a synergistic deliverance unto orgiastic inflorescence, never to part, ever held together by reverential love, worshiped and exalted by this very diligent devotee of their nonpareil brilliance.
I bowed down, paid my deepest obeisance, and made arrangements for a journey across time, onto worlds anew and music unconquered.
Thank you, 2Cellos, for the inspiration, the perfection, and the most exuberant auditory images.
The Unconditional Maverick