Below is something that I wrote, and I just hope you'll enjoy reading it.

3 scenes of irrelevant nature:

Before we begin

Please know first that we know nothing about everything.

We are the children of coincidence, born on a Monday and to die on a Sunday.

With that in mind please know that what will happen will happen in three places by three people in three difference times.

And somewhere out there in one's head, there is a motel that stands in the desert where not even a light pole or electric

wire exist. The structure, for its namesake, really betrays everything that one visions when one thinks of a motel.

This motel from the outside looks more like what one would think a motel room would look like if it was taken out of its

gathering of rooms to the right/left and top of them and crawled out to live on its own.

The almost cardboard look of its plaster walls do not look like they can stand the wind, its poor door hinges are rusted,

its windows ruttle whenever the slightest wind blows by.

This motel has nothing. No bathroom, no diner, not even a bed.

All it has is a leather love seat and a TV.

And in that room he sits on a leather love seat, clutching a remote control the size of box of chocolate, facing a TV

encased in wood.

He sits without emotion, his skin turning to purple blow yellow red green orange as the program flashes display in their

original color.

Yet he does not stir, not when the wind rattles the walls, not when the Earth stirs in her sleep and shakes the windows.  

TV washes over him in black and white, neon like rays cover his unblinking hollow eyes, hand clutching the remote

not moving an inch to change anything.

And outside, the wind slowly stirs the Earth.

He sits with the TV at the lowest volume now at its end of last program.

Sand storm washes his face now, black and white grains reflect and dance over his face.

Still his eyes see nothing, his pale flesh turning to that of a belly of a dead frog.

The only light in the room is the TV, turning his skin pale by the second and its projection of black and white grain

stripping him of skin.

As the grains of white and black hit his skin, little by little his body flakes away, rise up into the air and escapes

out through little cracks in the ceiling, spreads himself into the air, atomsphere, universe, until he is returned to

the very depth/height his mind was born from.

And we are left with the bare minimum of what he is, ie his skelton.

The white wash bones perfectly comlements the dishelved white shirt black tie outfit.

The bones somehow stay in their place when they were held together by flesh.

The fingers still hold the remote, skull is still connected to the spine, legs aren't falling out of the black trousers,

and the hollow sockets of eyes are still staring at the sand storm on the TV.

And so the world becomes quiet. The wind dies down, stars go dim, dust settles to the ground and not even the whisper of

an angel can be heard.

In the dead of the night the motel stands holding her skeltal resident in her belly, watching the quiet TV.

Also somewhere in one's head, a woman sits infront of a desk with paper laying about, clutching a pen like an alcoholic

would hold his bottle, and though tremendous tears flow out of her eyes she tries to write the days she spent with him.

She does not know where to start because she felt like she can not start from the day she met him.

If she did just that, she would not be able to talk about how his existance changed her life.

But she does not want to start from the day she was born, because though all is far away from her now, the pain

of rememberance still rings in her ears.

But painful as it maybe, she wants to write down the days she spent with him.

She wants to talk about how his smile, beaming with life as it may have been, felt like the mirage you see in the desert,

how he would sometimes look up to the moon and whispered

"you know, someday I know I'm going back there,"

She wants to write about how his existance, as real and solid flesh and bones can make it, sometimes felt like the

last piece of winter to be swept clean by the reays of Spring.

She wants to talk about how sometimes he looked like he was at peace with himself when he was sitting down besides

the big tree in the forest, deep in his thought or his spirit has flown out of his body.

She wants to write because she wants to remember.

She wants to remember that because of him she could feel something, when all her life she thought she would never

feel anything besides pain that will never go away.

She wants to remember so she can look back into this period and say to herself "Yes, I was able to feel love,

I was capable of smiling, no matter how horrid things maybe now, there once was a time that I could enjoy life."

But whenever she takes a pen and faces the blank pages, her hands tremble and tears flow because to remmber her

days only intensifies the fact that he is no longer by her side.

Yet she tries to write, because if she kept him only in her memory, he will fade away.

To remember him until the end of times, she must have him in a form more solid than memory.

So she tries to write.

And now somewhere not quite in the head, but in the womb a child sleeps in its liquid bed.

It is sound asleep. No. It is not sleeping it is doing.

One can not even call it a sleep. All it is doing is floating in amniotic fluid and time.

Its mind, still a clean slate sees feels watches and experiences all that has happened before.

It dreams, if the word permits it, of everything that we have gone through.

It dreams of the day when one met a friend that betrayed him at the end.

It dreams of an enemy that helped his foe as he rode a horse that breathed fire and suckled his sould dry in

return for a power.

It dreams of a knight who rode the desert at the dead of the night under a full moon, when all is quiet and he can be

heard clear, as he blew the trumpet that shook the gods from their dreams because the trumpet declared war.

It dreams of times when many had thought to fight for peace rather than trying out to reach a common ground.

It dreams of a princess who fell herself to the sea because her love has perished trying to conquer the very

demon that dwells in the sea that created the horrible torrent that ate so many ships.

It dreams of a prince who shed quiet tears for his true love that disappeared into thin air in the mountains that

surround his land.

It dreams of the first day when he held her hand, felt the warm flesh of her palm and promised that he will protect her.

It dreams of when she held his tiny hand in her palm and promised that whatever may happen she will never put him

through such misery that will make him cry.

And sometimes it dreams into the future.