Fausto was walking alone in San Francisco, down Mission, headed south, through Bernal Heights, Excelsior, Ingleside, Oceanview, Crocker Amazon, down over to the Cow Palace, the site of the infamous Skirmish of the Liberated Replicants he’d read about in the Fake News, he kept walking lil he hit Santo Francotico, and then Santa Francesca,..
He whistled as he walked, a jazz tune, a brilliant, vivacious melody, brand new in the world, truly beautiful.
He breathed in the tranquil solitude, the city breathing its lights into his skull, inhabiting his flesh, sitting like gold dust on his brain matter.
He came to an electric blue piano, and played the sweet melody in his head. …
They lay in bed feeling The Joy, The Whole Joy and Nothing But the Joy.
The Joy filled them and they filled The Joy.
The Joy killed them and from that death The Joy again to them gave birth.
They spake of The Joy thusly:
The Joy forever, beyond language, grammar, punctuation.
The Pure Plain Joy.
The Forever Always Infinity Joy, The Joy Infinite…
They rolled around in The Joy and The Joy, in turn, rolled around in them.
They held The Joy up to the light and examined it. Yup, pure 100% Joy. …
They walked through the Desert of the Valley of Death, the dry heat evaporating the sweat from their skin, their organs cooking like soup in a clay oven, slowing turning into pure sun fire light…
The hot was so hot it was cold, the cold was so cold it burned a bright dark white black.
The stories had come and went, spoke from the infinity lips of some metallic creature, runed and tuned, an instrument of musical love and war.
The communes inflated and deflated with the ebbs, flows, eddies and tides of the righteous and the weak.
The souls were celebrated, washed, wrung dry, thrown in the air like pizza dough. …