Mad Tea Party
Rated R


                       Mukashi mukashi....


     "Can love stem from an imagination, a mere dream?"
     This question was asked of me not so long ago. A reflection
on my works, my tales. Can one truly believe in such a whimsical
thing as love, one brought on by just a person's being? Is love's
feeling real?
     That said, let me welcome you to a most unconventional
story. They who belong within the world of Naoko Takeuchi, the
Sailor Senshi and their enemies, have always been of central
focus. Their universe has remained solely their universe.
     But now let me present unto you a tale unlike any other I've
written. Fantasy and reality are about to blur beyond a point of
recognition and division. Question what you know, and what you
think is real. For sometimes you can be awake in your own dreams.
And a decision must be made.  
     Welcome to a sliver of darkness and a shadow of night.
     This is the final tale I am going to tell you.
     After it has been written and submitted, I am quietly
retiring from the world of Sailormoon fanfiction. There are other
stories I wish to write, other concepts I wish to try my hand at.
     Will I return to this place? 
     Perhaps.
     If anything you could just call this tale, like the ones
that came before it, the lunatic rantings of a hopeless romantic.
Can love stem from an imagination? I doubt I'm the one to answer
that. I'm just an author, one whose obsession is to create what
was never once there before. If I can create love from nothing,
then so be it.
     But is that love real? 
     Within the tale itself there is nothing more true and noble.
     And so, let this be my answer to you, my epitaph for all.
May you enjoy what I have to offer this one, last time....

                         -His lordship Chaos
                              hislordshipchaos@hotmail.com




         have you ever been kissed by a girl like this?


                          MAD TEA PARTY



     DO YOU LOVE ME?
     Four little words.
     The four words which started it all.
     They were the words I awoke to. I blinked, rubbing the sleep
from my eyes which I thought might be causing this. It was a hell
of an easier task than clearing the pervasive cobwebs still stuck
in my groggy mind.
     Somewhere in the distant haze that was my apartment, the quiet
melody of a U2 song was playing itself out. Most of the lights were
off, letting the darkness creep across the walls like some kind of
silent predator. Not that I cared about the demons who hid in the
shadows; my room could barely fit me, let alone someone or
something else. My head was lifted from its place beside the
keyboard of my computer, which had been pushed aside to accommodate
tonight's sleeping place.
     I stifled a yawn, glanced down at my wristwatch.
     The time was apparently 4:39am.
     "Fuck," I muttered, rubbing my cheek as I stared benignly at
my computer screen. It was too damned early to be
awake...especially since I had fallen asleep here in front of this
same computer only two hours ago.
     WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME?
     I hadn't seen the words type themselves. I didn't hear the
quiet clatter from the keys being pressed. And I sure as hell knew
it wasn't my fingers that had done the pushing. If I had blinked,
this was certainly not the thing to miss.
     Somewhere between my state of sleep and awake, the message had
changed. And become more personal. Blue letters against a black
screen. A question I knew nothing about asking me for an answer I
couldn't give. My fingers found themselves touching the screen,
almost expecting to go through the inky black and push into some
sort of mirror illusion.
     Was this itself still a dream?
     I started hitting random buttons on my keyboard. The screen
remained black and still demanded me the question to which I had no
answer. Command keys failed. A temptation to turn everything off
and reboot was there, but curiousity lingered and managed to
overcome my other options. 
     The U2 song ended.
     A new track began.
     A stray glance went to the CD player, which was tucked
somewhere between the bed and the door to my bathroom. Light
trickling out from the static on a small television set danced
across the wall in front of me. Danced across my image of her. A
weary smile was managed on my part as I looked up to the wall
scroll, to a face I knew very well. A face I had dreamt of, written
of.
     "Why don't you love me?"
     Whispered.
     It's remarkable what fear can do to a person. Fatigue is
washed away in a tide of adrenaline, and the body reacts as if time
itself has slowed to a crawl. The warmth of my own blood flooded
through my system, hitting me with the subtlety of a sledge hammer.
I turned my head, turned my entire chair, nearly knocking the
keyboard off the desk.
     Words whispered quietly into my ear.
     Like the gentle beckoning of the evening wind.
     Words I had not spoken.
     But there was no one in my apartment but me. Even as my eyes
searched out the shadows for a silent predator, I could find
nothing but the echoes of who I was. Fansub tapes stacked in
disarray around the television and the base of its perch. A small
collection of CDs which paled to the MP3 lists I had procured from
the Internet. And the wall scroll.
     I looked to her once more.
     She looked at me and away from me all at once.
     My eyes returned to the screen, and saw a screensaver playing
itself out. Perhaps it had been a dream, a random access of thought
and memory. Wishful thinking without direction or destination. I
shut the computer down.
     U2 followed shortly thereafter.
     Symphonic silence reigned.
     The heat from being startled was still affecting me. It had
always affected me; I could survive the frigid cold better than a
sweltering summer heat. Strange that I could be so warm when it was
so cold outside. Reflections of rain moved across one of the walls,
grey clouds drifting at a slow crawl high above. On nights like
this the curtains on the large window beside my bed were left open. 
     Nocturnal creatures thrived on nocturnal worlds.
     It's almost hypnotic to watch the rain streak down the pane of
glass, rippling in transparent veins, the droning hum of their fall
punctured by the occasional crash of thunder. Rain had always
fascinated me, how something that can be so gentle can also be a
such raging tempest when it wants to be.
     For a short time I sat upon my bed and stared out at the
window, a haunting, vague reflection of myself and my room staring
back at me. My palm savoured the touch of cool transparent glass,
and the quiet intimation of nothingness overtook my thoughts as I
stared outside at a damp city.
     Sleep at last overpowered the wish to watch further.
     The final sources of internal light were shut off.
     I crawled over to my pillow, kicked the covers back.
     "Oyasumi nasai..." The whispers were mine as I gave one final
glance at the wall scroll. Her features were cast in a shade of
blue amidst the light and rain from outside. A playful smile.
Emerald eyes. Chestnut brown hair. And a sailor battle fuku.
     "...Kino Makoto."


     I went to see Gavin that next day.
     The man who was my mentor in Anime, who had first introduced
me to the genre. The man who was known as 'the fansub pimp' in some
circles, who had connections with what looked like every major
otaku in North America.
     Gavin was Irish, born and raised in Dublin until he was
nineteen. Then he moved from Ireland to here. He still had the
accent. I wish I had an accent. Though apparently I do--at least,
from Gavin's perspective. So we should just say I wish I had an
accent like his. 
     You'd never really think him to be an otaku; to be honest, the
first time I saw the guy I thought he looked too sophisticated to
be at an Anime club. The nearest dance club seemed to hold more
appeal for one like him. Guess there's no telling what a person is
really into these days. Then again, he worked at a club called The
Abstract. One of the resident bartenders there. The guy was twenty-
four and living like I would have loved to.
     The first one to meet me when I stepped through Gavin's front
door was short, furry and ran around on all fours. "Hey, Gilliam,"
I said, smiling as I scratched the terrier's side. He barked
happily and wanted more attention, more pampering.
     Gilliam.
     Named after the Monty Python director, Terry Gilliam. I had
initially thought Gavin named the dog after Outlaw Star's AI
computer; he had all the videos of the series released thus far,
plus some kind of poster of Aisha ClanClan I'd never seen
elsewhere.
     "I think you've got a soft spot for her," I had once remarked.
     "Just between you and me," Gavin had replied with a wry grin.
"I have a particular penchance for catgirls. Ana and Uma Puma from
Dominion Tank Police used to be among my favourite contenders, but
recently Outlaw Star's resident Ctarl-Ctarl, as you can see, has
superseded them."
     But Gilliam was Gavin's pet, and a strange anachronism to the
man's love of cats: a white Sealyham terrier with a strange tanned
colour on his head and ears. Some kind of small Welsh dog, from
what I could recall Gavin telling me when I had first been invited
over to his place.
     "The Sealyham resembles the Scottish terrier," Gavin had told
me in my first meeting with Gilliam. "Short legs, a square jaw, but
the Sealyham regularly has its tail docked."
     Whatever the hell a docked tail meant. I assume it refers to
the fuzzy stump on Gilliam's ass where his tail would otherwise be.
Though at the time of discussion, I had just nodded and let the
friendly dog lick my hand as I knelt down next to him. 
     At best, Gilliam came up to my knees.
     At best, mind you.
     Gavin closed the door and we adjourned to his living room. If
this had not been reality, then I would have sworn he had Setsuna
and Michiru working with his wardrobe. A tight black shirt was his
central choice of attire today, worn beneath a black leather coat
he'd brought with him over from Ireland. Only in the hottest dog
days of summer did Gavin actually opt to not wear his leather
jacket.
     Almost always he dressed in casual blue jeans.
     For as long as I'd known him, he always wore a 6 o'clock
shadow on his face, left to grow for a day or two--but never
unkempt, and it gave him a roguish air.
     "So why does my faithful accomplice grace my presence today?"
he inquired, gesturing for me to take a seat on the couch. He
adjourned to an old leather recliner that had seen Gilliam use it
as a chew toy on many an occasion. Well-worn, and still well-loved.
"The Anime club's not showing until tomorrow night."
     "What do you know about dreams?" I asked.
     It was abrupt, but common.
     He knew me and my scattergore thoughts well enough. The curse
of a writer, he once quipped in response to one of my strange
opening remarks, is that they're never quite in the world to begin
with and still they long to be out of it. As a result you get
someone who's drifting in between, and you can never really
anticipate them. Their minds are curious demon machines affected by
little else outside of a passion.
     So what then did Gavin know of dreams?
     He shrugged, removing his wire-rimmed glasses off his face and
taking a moment to absently clean the thin, elliptical lenses.
"Freud had a field day with them," he remarked dryly.
     His dark hair had been replaced a month ago by yellow-blonde
bangs that now spiked up in numerous directions like a blowfish on
caffeine overload. He'd been letting it grow out; his darker brown
roots were showing.
     He reached for the endtable standing next to his recliner.
Upon it was a small tray that held a wooden pipe.
     "Do you mind?" he inquired.
     I shook my head. "Be my guest."
     Gavin smoked--though only a pipe. And only when he reclined
back in his chair to read, or philosophise.
     The guy had a pretty impressive library in his place too.
Mostly classics like Tolstoy, Chaucer, Plato, Dante Alighieri,
Shakespeare, Aquinas--and then poetry from the likes of Tennyson,
Wordsworth, Walter de la Mare, and some others I'm sure I once
heard my English teacher talk about in high school. Tolkien, Neil
Gaiman and Peter S. Beagle rounded out a few of his favourite
"contemporary" novelists. 
     I note those particular names are all fantasy writers.
     Then again, Gavin had a habit of being suavely surreal.
     It suited him.
     And so did his literary repertoire.
     Of course this didn't discount the stash of Anime he had
hidden all around. Most of it was stacked on a large bookshelf in
his bedroom. He preferred to watch Anime in his bedroom, leaving
his living room a sanctuary for reading. Which certainly explained
one shelf of nothing but Japanese tankobans and dojinshi. As far as
I knew, Gavin was fairly proficient in the Japanese language.
     Gavin lit his pipe and took a few short puffs to make sure the
tobacco was lit. The aroma was like that of smoke and hickory, and
was a surprisingly pleasant scent. 
     "I once read a story," he said to me. "I forget who wrote it,
but this tale he wove was of a man who was dreaming. Dreaming about
this entire world, and everything and everyone in it. He was
dreaming about us." He grinned and drew another breath from his
pipe as he watched my expression reflect my confusion. "How about
I try Lao Tzu: you ever wonder if you were really a butterfly, who
was dreaming he was actually a man?"
     I sighed, massaging my temples. A humourous mannerism I always
performed whenever the learned man seated across from me started to
talk of things I couldn't even pronounce. "What the hell are you
saying?"
     "Do dreams make the man?"
     Such thoughts were ones I perhaps wrote of without realising,
but never paused to consider. For a writer, introspection is
sometimes a difficult task to do. Everything else shuts down and
the story takes on its own form. You aren't even fully aware of
your own existence. And the story's existence becomes your own.
Contemplating what you've written is foreign, for everything seems
perfectly natural. A tale is the reflection of our passions and
dreams and demons, a little written glimpse into the mind of an
average lunatic.
     Perhaps I did understand a little what he was speaking of.
     "You can call me whatever you will," Gavin said to me. "Call
me Gavin. Call me a JAFO. But just remember that your name is only
used by other people, not yourself. It reflects only a poor
insight, a shallow essence of what you truly are. Someone can call
me an irritating prick, but does that necessarily make me so?"
     I raised one my eyebrows in response.
     He laughed at my silent inquiry.
     "Perhaps, I must admit," he sighed. "One's character is
something that must always be called into question. I do it often
enough. And that keeps me honest. At least I hope it keeps me
honest. Emil Brunner once said, 'The knowledge of good is not the
good itself.' Likewise Seneca wrote, 'We fail to know what is
necessary, because we study unnecessary things: indeed, we do not
know what is good for us, because we merely study what injures us.'
But I'm digressing from the issue at hand, and I can see I've
completely lost you."
     "No shit," I said dryly.
     Gavin shrugged and sat up, setting his pipe down on the
endtable next to his recliner. After a few steps towards his meagre
kitchen, he paused and looked back. "Want anything?"
     I shook my head.
     It was the afternoon, and too early to drink hot Sake.
     At least in my view. Gavin had become a thorough advocate of
the "nectar of the gods" and believed that any time of day was a
good enough time to drink it. While I didn't disagree, I had my
times and limitations.
     The sounds of rummaging through a fridge reached my ears. Soon
afterwards, Gavin returned bearing gifts. He tossed me a piece of
fruit. "Sorry, it's the best thing I got right now. Anything else
in the bloody fridge you'd have to heat up yourself. And I've got
about another two or three hours before my shift at The Abstract.
You comin'?"
     I shook my head.
     "I've got prior obligations," I sighed. "Namely a warm bed and
plenty of sleep."
     Gavin laughed what could only be described as a true Irish
laugh. "Here I am spending my nights in a loud nightclub, and
you're the one who's tired in the mid-afternoon."
     "I didn't sleep much last night."
     "Ah, up with a case of possession again?"
     I nodded.
     Though what I had written of was just a blur of forgetfulness
and memory's cobwebs in my brain. I made a mental note of finding
the file later. Shouldn't prove to be that hard of a task, even in
my current state.
     Gavin sat himself back down on his recliner, obliging a
friendly Gilliam to sit on his lap. Gilliam flopped down on his
back, legs sticking up in the air. He wanted to be scratched.
     "Guy knows when he has it made," Gavin sighed, rolling his
eyes before scratching Gilliam's belly. He returned his gaze to me.
"So why ask about dreams? Find yourself screwin' a cute girl again?
You know they taught us about these things in high school."
     I laughed and shook my head. "Konoyaro."
     "Oooh, using the Japanese swears now. Bringing out the big
guns, are we?"
     He had a way of knowing just what to say to loosen a person
up. It was incredible to just watch him act natural and flirt with
the woman of his choice...or just watch them get attracted to him
like a moth to a lamp.
     "You ever have moments where dreaming and awake are switched?"
     Gavin nodded. "The Abstract can get that way sometimes. Makes
me wonder about some of the clientele."
     "I mean real dreaming, Gavin." I shook my head, trying to
piece together the thoughts from a time early this morning. Strange
how upon waking, some dreams are recalled in every detail. But by
the time you stand up and stretch, it's already forgotten. Such was
this dream.
     He waited patiently for a response.
     I found something worth its coherency. "Last night felt
different somehow. Like my room wasn't quite my room."
     Gavin blinked, his eyebrows rising up. He paused from
scratching Gilliam. "Okay, for once you have me by surprise," he
admitted. "Never been told something like that before. Could just
be the mood you were in."
     It could have just been that.
     But it wasn't.


     The sun was a far cry from setting.
     A palette of crimson, ochre and yellow blended together to
paint the skies a brilliant sunset. From my window I could see it
amidst the other buildings stretching up beyond mine.
     An apartment with four corners, each one taken up by something
that held great value to me: an open-concept kitchenette, a bed, a
front door and a bathroom door. Tucked somewhere between these four
points were my desk and computer, a small table for my television,
my CD player, and a closet that somehow managed to house most of my
shirts--though half of those shirts were currently scattered across
the floor and the bed.
     Cramped.
     But the closest place I could call home.
     Sunset came and the darkness chased the daylight away. Stars
I could barely see through the lights and smog of a crowded city
shimmered somewhere above me. I sat before my computer. Sat and
wrote.
     And then stopped.
     Nocturnal creatures thrived on nocturnal hours, and yet
tonight I felt oddly uninspired. There were two tales I was in the
midst of creating, one to become a fanfic, the other to ideally be
published one day. Both had captured my imagination and my
obsession for days on end. Because of one I had stayed awake
through the night and forgotten what it meant to be ruled by such
a thing as the 24-hour clock.
     I looked around my room, at the reflection of the self. And I
saw myself desiring something more than this. Not necessarily more
fansubs or manga or Anime posters; I was an otaku third, a writer
second, and a human being first.
     To feel out of synch with the world, yet comfortably numb in
such knowledge.
     A sense, a place to belong.
     One who could understand.
     "Mukashi," I said quietly, my head pressed against the glass
of my window. I stared down at the streets below. "Mukashi
mukashi...."
     Words spoken to begin an ancient Japanese folktale.
     Long long ago...there was a time where magic was allowed to
run free. Where such a romanticism as a palace built upon the moon
would have been kept close to the heart of more than just children.
     My eyes turned to the wall scroll.
     Kino Makoto.
     Heaven was there embodied within a smiling face, and yet it
was still taken from me, beyond my grasp save for the kingdom of my
own imagination. I lowered my head and looked away. Was it wrong to
have fallen for a cell-drawn face? That long brown hair and emerald
green eyes I would always write of, always long for. My place to
belong would best be described as in her arms.
     Was it wrong to have a dream like this?
     Sleep didn't come easy for me.
     I paced what there was to pace within my apartment.
     Silence was measured by steps.
     Something like this had once been called wishful thinking by
its critics. Those who adhered simply called it a life less
ordinary. Life was something handed to all; the mileage and length
and road hazards were always what varied.
     But to actually live....
     Somewhere along the travels of my intimations I wandered to my
bed and collapsed. The computer left on. The lights left off. And
at the urgings of a quiet whisper in my ear I surrendered myself to
sleep, and whatever dreams would come.
     And they were of an ancient ruin, perhaps.
     This fallen castle, or whatever it had been, littered the
ground wherever I looked. The place was reduced to crumbling towers
and broken walls. But I could see no rotting wood or rusted metal
decorating the remains of the halls. The faint smell of death, mud
and decay was strangely absent. Either this place had been left
destroyed for decades, if not centuries, or else something unseen
was at work here.
     I moved beneath an archway where wooden doors once were. A
dull, brass hinge swayed when I flicked a finger at it. Perfectly
intact hinges not attached to a door.
     A few scattered lanterns bearing kanji I couldn't read were
here and there, but the best light still came from the stars above.
Multitudes of stars upon stars, a dizzying view to take in as they
all demanded to come into focus at once. So different from the
ever-present glow of the city.
     Yet I was no longer in the city.
     I was no longer on Earth.
     For that brilliant blue sphere was staring back at me from the
heavens above. When I should have stumbled back in surprise and
confusion, I simply accepted it for what it was. Yet to see the
planet from the moon was a breathtaking sight, one that would burn
itself into my eyes even after the awakening from this dream. 
     I knew this place. I had seen it on my television screen
numerous times.
     I was upon the lunarscape.
     Standing amidst the ruins of a lunar palace.
     There were no bodies to show the aftermath of the war.
Scattered patches of green grass were stitched and overlapped with
broken stones, half standing pillars, toppled columns, and the
skeletal remains of temples and other once beautiful buildings.
Each stone had a faded silver shine.
     Perhaps this was once a sacred place. A sanctuary hidden
within the boundaries of the Moon Palace.
     I hopped down from a column that had long ago fallen onto its
side. And there I found a garden. Flowers, plentiful and beautiful,
growing only in this courtyard. Even moreso, I could see no
wildflowers.
     Every last blossom was one which required gentle and vigilant
care. Colours of red, blue, violet, white and green curled around
the broken pillars and crumbling walls. A cluster of ivy weaved
their ways around a free-standing arch. Like entering a surreal
arboretum, the ribs of the fallen palace acted as trellises for the
growing plants.
     And in their midst, a pool: still and serene.
     It remained calm and blue, reflecting the cosmos above as well
as the silver stones lining the water's edge. Dozens of
waterlilies, smooth and lush green pads glistening with droplets of
water, leisurely drifted in a tideless ocean all their own. A
tangle of stems and roots disappeared beneath the dark reflection
of a black heaven and blue earth, and into the deeper, darker
depths of the pool. Patches of emerald and the echoes of Earth, all
of which laid somewhere beneath and beyond the surface.
     All was quiet.
     And there I was, kneeling at the water's edge, looking at
myself looking at me. My reflection was as unchanged as it ever
was, staring into the pool with vacant dreaming eyes.
     I knew this place.
     Last I had seen it, this world had been cell-drawn.
     But no longer did it appear confined to such limitations.
     If I stood and welcomed the waters with open arms, falling
with my back to the clear liquid and my face to the skies above,
would I be swallowed up in the darker depths? Would I dare to defy
the tides and float to the surface, or let myself be wrapped in the
cool embrace of the watery shadows?
     A droplet of rain struck the surface, sending ripples out from
its heart.
     Hypnosis was disturbed.
     First one ripple.
     Then many, as the rains began to fall. It felt like a summer
shower, dampening all my clothes yet it was a wet I did not mind.
Refreshing. Cool. Dared even to call it invigorating, to know one
is alive by the caress of each raindrop on your skin.
     My eyes closed as I soaked up the rain.
     And opened to see her.
     She was a saddened visage, her back turned and her face hidden
by the brown bangs of hair clinging to her face from the rain. And
I almost mistook her for a tragic angel, lost her way to heaven and
was left to search for it here on moon. Here where paradise was
lost, and would one day be replanted upon the Earth. But instead
she found me. I suddenly wondered if I was actually the lost one,
and she had been here waiting for me to find her.
     The tresses of her robes, blue like diaphanous ice, fluttered
around her form. Her hands were clasped together in plea and
prayer. 
     She turned.
     My chest tightened, and I knew who she was. I could say
nothing, do nothing except stand there before her and look at her.
But I saw her eyes look away to something above me, behind me.
Beyond me.
     I followed her vision, and saw the pale image of the Earth
amidst the glow of the stars. Rain continued to fall even though I
could see no clouds, just the cosmic darkness. Something abruptly
didn't feel right. This was her world, her memories. I was
intruding where I was not meant to be. A knot tightened itself
within my stomach, and I looked back.
     Emerald green eyes stared at me. Asked me.
     Do you love me?
     And it was within this symphonic silence that I awoke.
     Quiet was disturbed by the echoing ring of water falling into
water, of a droplet of rain coming down from above to find its
ocean below. I stirred from a tangle of covers and forced myself to
look around. 
     The lights were still off. 
     The computer said nothing.


     Sometimes after something as provocative as a dream, the real
world becomes like one. People pass by in a distortion of hats and
coats and dresses. Hair spilling out to frame their faces and drape
down their backs. Eyes of colour and piercing gazes and averted
glances, wide open or closed shut. Or other times, veiled beneath
tinted lenses. The world slows to a surreal crawl despite its
frenetic pace.
     And when that happens, it's a rush.
     Something inside is fed, given the exhilaration to howl at
whatever ears may know enough to be listening. An artist calls it
inspiration, the scholar revelation. Both are different sides to
the same coin I call epiphany. But because I am a writer, it is
inspiration which seizes my body in serpentine coils and squeezes
my soul until every last drop of excitement and adrenaline are
purged upon paper.
     I found myself caught up within a tantalising entanglement as
the showing came to a close. Darkness reigned as it always does
during the midnight hours; no amount of artificial lighting can
drive away such a master of the twilight realm. We left the
university campus amidst a stream of other satisfied and satiated
otaku, all of us revelling in the experience of 7 straight hours of
Anime courtesy of our local club.
     There I was, letting everyone walk past.
     I stood still beneath a solitary streetlight.
     Closed my eyes and felt the breezes of a newborn season of
summer move past me. The folds of my jacket rustled. My eyes only
opened as I heard Gavin approach me on the boulevard. The Anime
club did its showings only once a month; it was easy for Gavin to
work his time at The Abstract to accommodate his attendance here.
     He paused long enough to wait for my eyes to open. We began to
walk. "Old fansub for your thoughts?" he asked me.
     "Weird dream."
     "You still thinking about that?"
     I shook my head, shoving my hands in my pockets, keeping in
step with him. The stars may not have been able to compete with the
city lights, but the moon was in all its white and brilliant glory.
"Not thinking. Living." I glanced around the buildings we walked
past, breathed the crisp midnight air. "You ever wonder if your
dreams were trying to tell you something?"
     Gavin pushed his wire-frames back up his nose with his middle
finger, his brow furrowing in consideration. "There's a
difference," he told me. "between a dream and a vision. A dream is
just a melange of random afterthoughts pulled together to form a
curious picture. Certainly they can be based on memories, events,
hopes and fears. They are still random, however. But a vision...a
vision has a message to deliver. A vision has purpose."
     We stopped at an intersection.
     Waited for the light to change in our favour.
     Amazed at how many cars were still here on the roads at this
hour of night. I could see them lining up in their laneways, head
and brake lights flashing in succession. Each a different make. A
metallic face.
     Yet I could only see her face.
     "Why do you ask?" Gavin's voice pulled me back to the
crosswalk. 
     My feet moved of their own accord. My mind took its time
returning. "I had a dream," I said to him. I shook my head, vague
images denying to be unlocked by my memories. At best all I had
were feelings. Emotions. Lingering electric nerves. That sense that
I didn't belong...and with it came the bane of forgetfulness. "I've
never dreamed like this before, Gavin. It was out of an Anime."
     As he always did, Gavin gave me a curious side-glance, but was
still nonchalant about the matter. "Probably happens to more
writers than you think. If any story is your current obsession, it
makes for a more fertile ground for your dreams to play in. Some
writers are inspired by their dreams, from what I hear."
     He had indeed heard right, I could privately attest, but that
was a tangent from what I desired to talk about. 
     "What do you think happens when you realise you're dreaming?"
I asked.
     "Don't know. Never experienced it myself," Gavin answered.
"Some people say you can control your dreams with enough practice
and concentration. I have my reservations about such a concept, but
to each their own. What did you dream?"
     I looked up at the rows of stores and darkened windows lining
the sidewalks beside us. "Scene upon the moon, before Saturn was
called to wipe clean the ruins of the palace. No bodies were there;
just broken buildings and flowers. And she was there."
     "Makoto?" he asked me.
     I nodded.
     Gavin cracked a dry smile. "Was she naked?"
     "Bite me, Sukebe-san," I retorted.
     "Hey, there will be no dissing anything to do with Urotsuki
Doji in my presence, okay?" We both laughed, the oppression of
fantasy dispelled momentarily. 
     "Really, my friend, I don't see why you're getting so worked
up," Gavin said. "We all have those fucked-up dreams that make for
interesting stories. I once dreamed in Japanese with English
subtitles at the bottom of my line of sight. Woke up feeling weird,
but now it makes for a good laugh."
     "But that had the makings of a dream. What if the dream is
more than just a construct of the mind?"
     The walking was leaving me feeling hot again. I unzipped my
jacket, enjoyed to flow of air past my form. A part of me idly
wondered how I would cope with the impending humidity of late
summer. Killer days with sadistic nights, where you merely had to
lift a finger and then sweat for hours from the effort.
     "What if it is, and that 'is' is real?" Gavin remarked,
indulging me. He shrugged, and I could tell by his expression that
his mind was unable to find a quick solution. But then again, Gavin
was the type to ask me questions instead of give me answers. Point
the way and let me search for myself. "Far be it from me to offer
you concrete answers in a world I firmly believe is more abstract
than we give it credit for," he said. "Your dream could be a random
thing. Could be from sleep deprivation. Could be something else
entirely. Just let it alone and see what happens from there. Best
and only advice I can give you right now, really."
     We arrived at a divergence. Our paths would part as we
returned to our respective apartments. He would stay to the streets
and walk home, as home for him was not far away. Perhaps half an
hour at the most. And besides, Gavin loved to walk. 
     I would have to go underground, venture into steel serpents
called subway cars and take a twenty-five minute journey amidst
countless stops in between. I didn't object. This time of night on
the subways, not many people were riding. Those who were passengers
like me keep quiet and to themselves. 
     I always enjoyed taking the seat at the rear of the train, and
watching the shadows of the tunnel and tracks get left in our wake.
Some of my best writing came from just watching the tunnels,
letting my thoughts go where they may.
     Gavin and I shook hands.
     Exchanged farewells and the last ribbing where possible.
     Time for me to disappear into my world.
     I rode the subway home in the company of thoughts for wolves.
They were baying, stirred to life by the mood I could feel
overtaking me. It was inspiration calling sweetly, a ghostly
succubus inviting me to partake in her written fantasy. A perpetual
machine sometimes, it will refuse to let go once it sinks its claws
into your mind. I am at the same time its master and slave.
     Start with an idea.
     A scene.
     A sentence.
     And from there, let the story tell you where it wants to go.
     Such is the way I write. Some writers are meticulous and
calculate every piece of plot and dialogue beforehand. Their
synopses are their guides and their styles. Spontaneity is mine; I
work with the initial frenzy and watch it all unfold. A tapestry of
words.
     I nearly kicked the door down to my apartment, unwilling to
fumble with the keys. My jacket was tossed with the other
assortment of clothes on the floor. The door was kicked shut and
hastily locked. Ambience to promote my euphoria was required. Music
was my escort whenever I wrote. "Gessekai" became my chariot
tonight.
     I could barely contain myself as I sat down, shoes still on my
feet, and shook the mouse. The screensaver was jarred into
oblivion. I accessed a new file in my word processor. A fanfic was
being shaped, moulded, created with the brush of a fingertip
against a key. Like all the others, it began very small.
     Beginning with only four little words.
     Into the night I typed. And from night into morning. An echo
of internal tickings from my body's own clock registered at long
last when the time upon my wall read 4:21. And only then did I
finally surrender myself to the forces of a beast called Sleep.



     How many miles to Babylon?
     Three score miles and ten.
     Can I get there by candlelight?
     Yes, and back again.
     Yes, if your feet are nimble and light,
     You can get there by candlelight.

               -children's nursery rhyme



     I awoke late to an apartment that was my own.
     And in that apartment I did the things that were my own habits
and chores. Laundry was picked up off the floor and cleaned. Dishes
were washed and set away. A refrigerator was at long last relieved
of its burdensome and fuzzy leftovers. Such were the morning
activities, normal everyday things found within the wake of a night
possessed in writing.
     I did all these things with an almost detached motion and
mind. Everything was as real as they could be. Touched, sensed, saw
each item. But something felt oddly out of touch and made for
nonsense in a world that enjoyed categorising whatever it could
find.
     Today found me needed at my job, where I worked most
afternoons of the week. I travelled there and performed my duties
as I had the morning's chores. An afternoon of tedious work
disappeared, came and went, lost in a strange wonder and
forgetfulness. I saw faces and voices, met with people I knew, some
I had known for years. But something haunted each encounter.
     It was impossible to describe what that haunting was.
     How can you describe something that lacks a precedence?
     All I could know was that something was different in my world,
though I could not understand what. Rationale and logic failed me.
Instinct was at a loss. Even emotions were in great upheaval--they
more than anything else in my psyche could not be trusted.
     And so I worked.
     By the time the store closed in those later hours, and I was
among those who locked its doors and turned off its lights, the sky
was fast darkening. False sunlight still tried to blanket the edges
of the horizon, the sun already sunk beneath this part of the
world. Given up the city to the shadows. A realm of frolicking
darkness was opening itself up to me.
     I would have walked, wandered, let my mind work itself into a
frenzy. But such a customary approach to stirring up the Muses of
inspiration would not work on me today. The sleep I had managed
this morning was still not enough to carry me through the hours of
the night. I had to sleep. 
     The bus ride I caught to the subway was uneventful. 
     The subway ride home was even more so.
     By the time I opened my apartment door, already lost to sweat
and the sticky, humid air, night had completely swallowed up the
light. All that defied the darkness now was artificial, made by
buildings and the moon. The moon merely reflected the light of the
sun; it did not generate its own light. 
     The moon....
     Unsettling thoughts began to churn. Something lost to the
forgetfulness of waking up managed to find a voice, though it was
just a vague whisper. I still heard it. Looked to my computer. Why
did the moon suddenly make me feel on edge? What euphoria did a
lunar landscape hold for me?
     My eyes were cast to the television set. To the piles of
fansubs stacked at the base of its proverbial pedestal.
     "I'm too damn tired for this," I muttered.
     It was exhausting trying to keep up with myself like this. I
stripped out of my shirt. Opened the window and let a trickle of
wind circulate around my room. Everything was sweltering, like a
vice of heat and thickened air.
     The bathroom held for me relief.
     My glasses found their way onto the counter.
     Cold water from an open facet poured into a ceramic sink
basin, and I cupped my hands to the deluge. Splashed the cool water
against my face and realised how wonderful it was to no longer be
a victim to this heat. Transient joy, for the humidity returned
moments later to reattach my chain, but I welcomed that momentary
joy never the less.
     The mirror over the medicine cabinet revealed my face, my
fatigue. Dirty-blonde hair dyed a darker shade of brown, once
gelled forward but now sagging and clinging to a face covered in
droplets of water and sweat. Apple green eyes. Chin and cheeks
showing the telltale signs of stubble. A weary but content smile.
     Such things were what made me who I was.
     A shallow reflection of the deeper self.
     "These late nights are killing you," I told my reflection. It
didn't react; just mimicked my every action and enunciation as I
placed the lenses back over my eyes.
     With a sigh I relegated myself to an early night, and opened
up the medicine cabinet. Let the mirror swing aside to reveal metal
shelves almost bare. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A bottle of
Aspirin that I rarely ever used. Some bandages and a roll of tensor
wrapping, always for emergencies. My shaving kit. A bottle of hair
gel. Deodorant. A comb. Unimpressive items, yes, but essential. 
     The essentials rarely make themselves out to be impressive;
they know they're needed, and work for the function. Fancy
decorations and facades are nice little bonuses.
     I grabbed my toothbrush and paste. Idle thoughts went through
my head, ones considered briefly and only once. What my schedule
was tomorrow. An idea for a story title. Did I feel like eating
something before I crashed tonight? The toothbrush was set down on
the rim of the sink.
     I closed the medicine cabinet.
     And saw I was no longer alone.
     In behind my form, a young woman was staring at me. Long dark
hair flowed down her shoulders, past her waist. Eyes of violet
passively watched the shock register on my face. 
     "The hell?!" I snapped, spinning around. My hands swept the
toothbrush off the rounded sink, and it clattered onto the floor.
     There was no one in my bathroom but me.
     If I had felt tired and on the verge of incoherency a moment
ago, that was all washed away in a surge of fear, surprise and
purest adrenaline. My heart was racing. I was sweating again, the
humidity returning with twice the potency as before. My eyes darted
left and right.
     But I was alone in my bathroom.
     The toilet was as unchanged as always. The stall I called my
shower was still standing there with the curtain drawn back. Only
light and shadow existed in this room with me.
     I lost the urge to brush my teeth.
     My feet rushed me to my one-room apartment. With frantic eyes
still unbelieving what they had seen, I saw only what I saw every
night. My world was my world, its borders uncrossed. Maybe I had
been hallucinating. Been startled by a flash of shadow and let my
imagination get the better of me. Perhaps it was exhaustion.
     "Shit," I muttered, running my palm down my face. Beads of
sweat were collected and ran like trickles of water down my
fingers.
     With the initial surge of shock dying down, leaving behind
only the stark and momentary terror immortally etched in my
memories, I knew the next thing I had to do. I purposefully walked
over to my fridge, took out a Coke and proceeded to chug as much of
it as I could. Of all the times to be out of Gin and tonic.
     A knock at the door.
     Polite and patient.
     Awaiting my answer.
     The Coke was forgotten, nearly dribbling out from its can and
down my bare chest. My head slowly turned to the front door.
     The reassertions I'd just made about my sanity started to
shake, and then I realised that such arguments I'd crafted were no
more stable than a flimsy house of cards.
     I kept silent. The Coke somehow found its way onto the kitchen
counter without being spilled. My eyes remained  fixated on the
door, how it was closed and locked--yet that was but a small
comfort. I was almost expecting something to come crashing through.
My mind was carving bizarre and chilling beasts out of a fertile
imagination; my talent had opted to conspire against me.
     The knock came again.
     Still polite and patient.
     No one spoke out.
     Many things went through my brain in that moment of indecisive
fear. Most of them involved a mental chanting of every last swear
word I had ever learned. I wanted to tell myself, "Get a grip. It's
probably just the landlord or a salesman." But the girl in the
mirror had left me with doubts about everything.
     A brief glimpse of her face was still enough for me to
recognise who I had seen.
     I dared to walk over to the door and unlock it. 
     The hallway was not waiting for me on the other side.
     Out with the old. In with the surreal.
     Beyond the doorway of my apartment existed a darkened
facility. One step over the threshold found my body standing atop
a raised platform. Below was sprawled an immense laboratory.
Computer screens left active but unattended made eerie flickers of
light in the prevailing darkness. Hundreds of small, coloured
lights blinked off and on. Coils of cables of all different sizes
were draped everywhere, some of them hard to distinguish from the
maze of piping all around.
     I heard the loud echo of a rhythmic heartbeat, and with it a
slightly mechanic hum of synchronised machinery accompanying the
pulse. Everything rippled in navy shadows, throwing a ghostly
paradery of light across the entire room.
     There was nothing I could say in that moment. No whispers of
awe. No glib witticisms. Nothing. I was mute to this world around
me, a world that had suddenly decided to be on the other side of my
apartment door. But I could still walk, and like one unable to
resist the temptations of curiousity and the unknown (and perhaps
even of destiny) I ventured forward. Deeper into the belly of this
facility.
     One step at a time was taken down the metal stairs.
     I ceased walking when I reached the base, and saw what had to
be the heart and soul of this world: a cylindrical, glass chamber.
This was the source of the rippling blue light. Bubbles from the
liquid inside surged every few seconds, floating to the top.
Whatever that blue liquid was, it was not water. 
     And there was a woman sleeping there in the glass chamber. Her
arms dangled loosely at her side, suspended in the liquid. Long
hair that could only be golden blonde drifted alongside the dozens
of thin black cables that seemed to be fused into her skin and
connecting her with the machines outside. 
     Her eyes were closed. 
     She was sleeping.
     My voice was permitted to speak, and only because the numb
shock of sudden understanding had shattered all other barriers. My
hand reached out, palm caressing the cool glass surface of the
chamber.
     "I wrote this," I said quietly.
     It could have been that I sensed her there, or just
coincidentally turned my head to find her there. But she was
standing here within this darkened facility regardless, watching me
from the top of the metal stairs. 
     Violet eyes. 
     Long raven-dark hair.
     Hino Rei.
     She watched my with a smile on her face, but the reasons for
that smile were lost upon me. A mystery. Traces of fond affection,
but something else. Something more.
     "What is this place?" I called out to her. Amazing that my
voice didn't sound frightened or demanding. But the confusion was
certainly made evident.
     She smiled in amusement. 
     Though she didn't respond, I could see her answer clear
enough. 'You already know what it is.' A world I had written of.
But what had been written existed only in words and prose and
texts. This was beyond text: it was physical, of sight and sound
and touch and so much more.
     My eyes turned back to Neo Queen Serenity, who still slept
within her glass prison. The ripples of blue were cast upon my
skin; for a moment I felt like I were in an ocean without the
water. I pressed my palm against the glass. Felt the glass press
back and hold steady.
     I was walking around inside a scene I had crafted.
     There was nothing left to do but turn back to Rei. "Am I
dreaming?" I asked. Fallen down the stairs and was having a really
strange dream while the paramedics drove me to a nearby hospital?
Laid out on my bed, already asleep, dreaming that I was awake?
     Rei shook her head.
     Violet eyes seemed to shimmer, watching me. Not out of
sadistic amusement for seeing me lost in a puzzle. I suddenly
realised that she was confident I'd solve whatever the hell sort of
puzzle this was, and it made me shiver for a reason I could not
guess at.
     And then wordlessly she turned and walked out from the
facility. For a glimpse I caught sight of four black numbers
branded onto the back of her neck. Ones and a zero.
     The door closed behind her.
     By the time there was a click and hiss of air from the door
being sealed, I was already halfway up the stairs. Racing after
her. Racing to keep up. The door didn't automatically open, unable
to sense my presence.
     But if this was a world I had written, I knew ways around
that. I knew of the keypad next to the door. I knew which buttons
and combinations to push.
     The door obeyed and opened.
     I rushed through.
     And stumbled back into my apartment.
     For a split second I must have looked ridiculous, my eyes wide
and blinking in surprise, my expression a comical display of utter
bewilderment. I turned around and looked back. The front door of my
apartment was open, and beyond that was the 10th floor hallway of
my apartment complex.
     An older man stood in the hallway, looking back at me with
some degree of confusion. He continued to watch me as I stared back
at him. Eventually he turned away and proceeded to his own
apartment.
     I closed my door.
     The aftermath left too much to digest. I couldn't even begin
to ask myself what had happened, of what I had seen. All I was left
with was a gaping question about my sanity. I couldn't write. I was
too jittery from whatever the hell that had been. A dream,
illusion, something totally different? On the other hand, I
grudgingly realised that I would be unable to get to sleep anytime
soon.
     As a friend of mine once said: "Sleep is for the weak!"
     There was no other option but to take his advice.
     I grabbed my shirt from where it lay on the bed, and put it on
as I stalked out of my apartment. A quick check at the door ensured
there was still a hallway out there. No Neo Queen Serenity floating
in a glass prison.
     For the next three hours I walked the streets of the world in
which I lived, re-establishing my confidence in the notion that
this world was still my own. And that it was still here.


     My time within a darkened facility, standing beside a sleeping
Neo Queen trapped in her glass prison, was not forgotten. It did
not gnaw at me like a forgotten dream I desperately tried to
remember. This had lacked all pretences of subtlety. It lurked in
every corner of my vision, shadowed my footsteps, haunted me like
a ghost.
     For a few uneventful days I was left with nothing but my
doubts, fears and faith in the world as I knew it to be. Work
distracted me from the internal inquisition about that story beyond
my apartment door. Likewise whenever I was at home I busied myself
with watching my fansubs or walking the streets.
     On the first night I refused to even glance at my Sailormoon
tapes. By the second night my resolve was wavering. By the third
night, I could not hold back. Three hours passed as I watched the
last few episodes of the R season. A crystalline future was safe.
A present romance was renewed and cherished.
     And I was drawn back to my computer, to a story I had in my
tension nearly forgotten about. A file named "untitled" was opened.
I read the beginning and it's four little words. I read the
sentences and paragraphs and pages that followed. The last scene
was left only half-completed.
     Music found its way into my CD player.
     Enigma, and its Screen Behind The Mirror.
     My fingers twitched as I read, drummed anxiously against the
keyboard. I could not deny what I was. As a writer, I felt the
possession take hold. The writing began once more, resuming where
the story had been left off. Continuing onwards with relentless
speed.
     Some have said that a story is a living entity unto itself,
though in its infancy neither breathes nor is tangible. It remains
an abstraction, waiting to mature within the mind of an
impressionable artist. The author is merely the means of the story
finding its final form; the story dictates where it wants to go.
How it wants to end. 
     That night I understood the truth behind that belief. The
story churned itself out at my fingertips. I was barely able to
hold on, left to just sit back and enjoy the ride. Another night
faded into the newborn hours of the morning. My bedside clock was
reading 3:27 when the lights dimmed and the computer hummed its
last for the next few hours.
     I didn't have to work later today; my one day off.
     Just as well. I didn't feel like working.
     Only dreaming.
     The dreams that came to me were either forgotten, or ones not
worth mentioning. But what came to me as I stirred out from the
influence of dreams made all the difference.
     Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" was being played. 
     Haunting and tranquil melodies of piano stirred me from the
tangled covers of my bed. It took me a moment to adjust to the
peculiar array of lights. Dim, but still more light than there
should have been. 
     A hand fumbled for the glasses resting upon the edge of the
nightstand wedged between my desk and my bed. Blurred vision became
clear. For a moment my vision might as well have stayed blurred.
     The shadows where my bed laid were being punctured by a small
deluge of delicate, pink blossoms. Sakura petals falling like rain.
And beyond the shadows came the notes of the Moonlight Sonata. In
rousing myself I slid out from my covers, retrieving my jeans from
where they were crumpled up at the foot of my bed.
     The first touch of bare foot upon the tiled floor was cold.
     Very quickly I realised none of my shirts were near me.
     Nothing of familiarity was near me.
     Again, surprise rendered me mute. English snuffed out by the
grip of silence. Steps made one at a time led me away from the
warmth of my bed, and into a realm where all the surrounding lights
seemed to glitter. As if all the stars in the sky had been captured
and gathered here to be woven into a fabric of diamond gemstones.
     I glanced back at my bed.
     It was still there behind me.
     But before me was a grand, spiral staircase. And beyond that
a sprawling, circular ballroom. Arches and pillars adorned with
statues of curving dragons and leaping dolphins were scattered
across the expansive marble floor. Silver drapes were suspended in
the air overhead, pillars and columns and archways decorating the
ballroom everywhere I turned my eyes.
     The delicate piano chords of Beethoven melted away,
dramatically changing into a rhythm and beat that seemed almost
impossibly beautiful. Mysterious and enchanting all at once. Woven
with orchestral music and chants and choral melody. It was a
symphony of night, ushering me into this place.
     My eyes looked to the walls, where beyond the archways laid
corridors guiding one deeper into the heart of this place. And yet
as they curved around to the far side of the ballroom, they became
arches upon arches, both gothic and beautiful, a row of snowy white
cut with a row of marble black. Through these curved gateways a
pale crescent moon shone into the grand ballroom, its reflection
bouncing off the ocean waves that seemed to swallow up the entire
world outside this place.
     The world was spinning.
     Dancing.
     Moving around me at such a pace that I felt like my head might
burst from the dizziness. I saw the stacking of archways from where
I stood at the top of the spiral staircase; the moonlight caught
off the ocean's surface; and below where I stood, the myriad of
souls dressed in rich and flowing opulent gowns, wearing masks and
dancing with one another. 
     In the time it takes for epiphany to strike, for the cork to
be removed and unleash the lightning trapped within its bottle,
everything makes perfect sense. Even the most senseless of things
which defy modern convention and mindsets.
     "Meikyu," I said quietly, still looking at everything with
eyes blurred by enchantment and disbelief. "I'm in his masquerade."
     My first impulse was to search the host out. In finding him I
might find an answer. Something to draw the line between fanciful
thoughts and the madness of dreaming. Knowing where I stood was one
thing. Knowing why I stood there was another.
     No peace of mind could be found until then.
     The host remained a spectre unseen. No signs of a black suit
and cloak shimmering with unearthly shine. My hopes grew more
frantic as I searched, moving halfway down the spiral stairs and
finding no one I could possibly hope to recognise.
     And then I felt a strange ocean breeze move past me, tickling
the bare skin of my back. Panic abated. Died quickly, replaced with
an opiate state. 
     Electric.
     Entrancing.
     A calming rush. 
     Slowly I turned my head; it didn't surprise me to find no one
there beside me. But my eyes followed the winds, the sakura petals
falling down upon the ballroom like pink confetti. And then I saw
who I was meant to find here.
     She stood near the base of the spiral stairs, almost directly
beneath me. Looking up at me and watching me. Gentle ocean breezes
brushed past me and were carried past her, playing the ends of her
sapphire gown. Laces and ruffles of overlapping crystal blue and
ocean blue trailed down over her shoulders and hung at her feet. In
her hair rested a violet orchid; the bathing of the moonlight made
her bangs shine a pale blue tint.
     Mizuno Ami.
     With a smile she greeted me. And with a smile she turned and
began to vanish amongst a crowd of dancers and masks, twirling and
twisting, laughing and drinking, gazes and smiles.
     "Hey, wait!" I called out after her, leaning against the
banister as if that effort might give her reason to remain.
     But she was already moving into the thick of the dancers, lost
in a sea of revellers.
     I gave chase. Raced down the last steps of the spiral
staircase. Plunged into plumage and colours, sparkling gemstones
and fiery bodypaint flashing past me in a blur of exotic costumes,
silken suits and fine garments. The sensation as I cut through the
fevered couples was electric, my body starting tingle as I felt
their emotions become my own.
     The euphoria could not defy possession.
     And I was possessed to find her.
     All I caught were glimpses of a sapphire dress. Of her face
and the violet orchid resting amidst her hair. One instant she was
there, and then something would come between us. A dancer, a masked
waiter delivering drinks, a momentary flash or sparkle of light.
     I pushed on regardless, turning this way and that, stopping
and searching whenever I seemingly lost total sight of her. But
then she would reappear at the edge of my peripherals. Like she was
waiting for me to catch up before taking off again. The reeling
realms of this masquerade and its ballroom were starting to take
their toll. Colours and faces were starting to fuse together and
become indistinguishable. Laughter and whispers echoed in my ears,
a quiet confusing symphony of dialogue to compete with the loud
symphony of music.
     Abruptly I broke free of the dancers.
     Gasping for air, giddy and nearly ready to pass out, I
searched for her again. I found Ami's fleeting shadow moving down
one of the corridors, leading me away from the ballroom. To run
would have meant stumbling; my footing still felt clumsy. But sheer
and stubborn tenacity pushed me forward when I was almost ready to
just collapse where I stood and call myself delusional.
     She led me down past a courtyard where the sounds of flowing
water from a fountain were louder than the music coming from the
ballroom. Always impossibly at the end of whatever chamber I walked
into, no matter how long the chamber was, no matter how much speed
I tried to make use of. Yet protesting would have done nothing.
     She was the leader in this game. All I could do was stumble in
a hasty attempt to keep up. I felt absurd running down this elegant
hall with no shoes or socks or a shirt upon my back.
     I saw her disappear beneath an archway.
     Moments later that same archway swallowed me up.
     The archway revealed to me a flight of descending stairs. I
could hear Ami's footsteps echoing somewhere down below. Another
room opened up at the end of the stairs, and I found myself staring
at an ocean closer now than ever before. The hidden romantic in me
wanted to stay and soak up the rich pleasure of watching the waves
play and crash against each other.
     That could come later...if I ever figured out what was going
on.
     Another set of descending stairs awaited me, enticed me with
an invisible crooking finger, beckoning me forward. Unable to go
elsewhere, unwilling to go back the way I'd come, again I followed
them.
     Soon enough I reached the end of halls and rooms with their
ceilings. Now I was beneath an open sky. A glance back over my
shoulder let me see the palace towering above me, glistening silver
stones flawlessly woven together to form walls and rooms and towers
and balconies. The face of the rock resembled the face of sloping
cliffs and I knew it was impossible to tell if the castle had been
built around them, or if the rocks had been built around the
palace. 
     I had written this. And so I knew that a question left
unanswered by the author was a question that could never be
definitively answered. But that was a moot point.
     Ami was waiting for me ahead on the shores, not behind in the
castle.
     The moonlit courtyard was empty save for me--though I knew she
was here somewhere. I could almost detect her scent in the air, no
matter how saturated it was with the salt from the oceans.
Glimmering cobblestones were beneath my feet as beautifully carved
railings curved around the edge of the world.
     Even though I knew what to expect, I had to go to the railing
and lean over the side. Let my sight be met with air and below that
water. To see this entire place floating, hovering over the ocean's
surface. Only then could I understand the majesty of actually being
there at the edge. No longer living vicariously through a written
text or the imagination.
     Somehow, though I could not explain it, this was real.
     "I can see why she likes you," I heard Ami say to me.
     I looked to my left, and saw her sitting there upon the rocks.
Her knees were against her chest, her head pillowed there on her
legs as she watched me with the same strange smile as Rei had.
     She cast her gaze out to the oceans stretching out to the dark
horizon line. "Quiet, but determined at the same time. Loyal and
curious all at once."
     And I gazed down at the rippling moonlight caught in the tides
somewhere beneath me. "How is this possible?" I asked her. "How can
I be here? How can you be here?"
     I turned to Ami once more.
     Only to find her vanished.
     My eyes closed as my expression became a cross between a
grimace and a frustrated scowl. The very act of blinking seemed to
have the power to betray me, to displace things from my sight in
less time than a heartbeat. I struck the railing with my palm, but
the action didn't soothe my mounting confusion and tension.
     For a time all I could do was stand there in the midnight air,
listening to the waves. No other thoughts or senses registered in
my mind. Not until I saw the ocean moving beneath the floating
palace. The insanity of impulse could hardly be called a revelation
or indicator of brilliance. That defining title would always come
based on the results. Only then would it be called either a lunatic
impulse, or the cunning of genius.
     For me, the result would take but a split second.
     And only I could decide the verdict.
     I leaned against the railing with my hands. Then pushed my
body off the ground. Placed my feet upon the railing. Slowly,
carefully, as if every touch and gesture were of ceremonial
importance, I stood there upon the edge of the world. 
     "If this isn't real," I murmured. Not only to myself, but to
who or whatever else might be turning an ear to listen. "then it
won't matter."
     My arms stretched out akimbo at my sides.
     My eyes closed.
     I let my weight slip forward, and my body fall from its
precarious perch upon the railing. Into the darkness I fell, with
what felt like the grace of a bird of prey taking flight. I could
feel the wind racing between my splayed fingers, cold blasts of air
pushing against my bare chest.
     My body plunged off the end of the floating castle. I let it
fall however it wanted to fall. 
     If you died in your dreams, did you die in reality? If it was
the case, I would never be able to tell anyone else the answer.
     Suddenly the cool rush of air came to a crashing halt and I
slammed into the ocean at the end of my journey. With a tremendous
jolt my graceful descent turned into a thrashing as I plunged into
the icy waters. And still continued to fall. 
     Collapsed in a heap of soaked jeans and water onto my bed. A
loud splash was my escort, droplets of salt water lingering on my
lips as the falling waves splashed against my sheets. The shock of
smashing into water and from there plunging into my room amidst the
splash left me shivering, my body suddenly chilled.
     Slowly I moved my body to see if I was still alive.
     To see if this was still my room and my reality.
     Roaming fingers found my glasses somewhere near my pillow, the
lenses dripping with water tasting of salt. A shaking hand was
raised in the air. I could feel the lunatic smile on my face as I
stared at my palm, at the water flowing down my skin and dripping
onto the floor.
     "What is happening to me?"


     With the city running by a summer clock, the sun's rays of
light were already starting to drive back the night as I put some
dry clothes on and left my apartment to its own questionable
devices.
     A warm shower to wash the saltwater smell from my body failed
to calm my nerves. The entire time I stood under the spray of
water, nothing felt right. As if I wasn't alone. The lingering
presence of whatever had occurred earlier still wormed its way into
my doubts. Eyes upon my back. Whispers echoing off the walls.
Nothing felt my own, not even the world I lived within.
     Keeping quiet was no longer a possibility to be entertained.
The confidence I'd had in myself to decipher these bizarre
hallucinations on my own had been washed away in that escourt of
falling water from an hour ago. Such things sounded implausible,
and if I told the wrong person I'd end up with four padded walls as
my new apartment.
     Perhaps more than anything, I feared if they weren't
hallucinations. If not, then what the hell was I dealing with? What
had caught me up in its grasp?
     There was only one person I knew I could talk to. Only one
soul I trusted enough to talk to about such things. With this being
a weekday the subway and buses were already running, even at 6:30
in the morning. In just over an hour I found myself standing in
front of Gavin's apartment door.
     I had to knock twice before I was granted an audience.
     The lock shifted, and the door was opened.
     "You'd better have a bloody good reason for making me drag my
ass out of bed at this hour," Gavin said, wrapped up in a black
housecoat and looking rather groggy himself. Probably spent another
late night tending bar and just recently got back home. He blinked
and yawned, and then noticed my agitated state. "You okay? You look
like hell."
     "Believe me, I feel worse. I don't know what's happening to
me," I said. A stray glance was cast down the empty hallway. No
prying ears were there to listen. "Can I talk to you?"
     Gavin nodded. "Yeah, sure."
     He moved aside and I slipped into his apartment. The door was
shut behind me, locked, and then Gavin shuffled towards his
kitchen. "You look like you could use a hit of hot Sake rather than
some tea," he remarked. "Or am I wrong?"
     I shook my head. "Sake. Lots of it."
     With a wry grin, Gavin set about to heat a small jug of Sake
for me. "Just forgive me if I'm not all that responsive," he said.
"I only got back from The Abstract about three hours ago."
     Leaving the pot of water to heat up, he stood in the kitchen
doorway. I had already sat down upon his couch, nervous energy
letting my fingers fidget around with a pen I'd found in my pocket.
     "So talk," he told me. "If you keep up like this, I'll start
charging you by the hour."
     And so I told him everything. Beginning with reminding him
about that strange dream I'd had not so long ago, the one I
couldn't recall. My words shifted to describe what had been on the
other side of my apartment door, of Rei and the facility I had
written about just a few months prior. The conclusion came with Ami
and a moonlit masquerade upon a floating castle, and how I had
crashed through the water only to find myself in my apartment
again.
     But even as I finished talking, a part of me somehow knew this
wasn't the end. For now, a conclusion had been reached. But only
for now. 
     This wasn't over.
     Gavin let out a deep breath with my last description, and
shook his head. "Damn, now I need some Sake too." 
     He disappeared to check on the Sake. A short time later he
returned to the living room with the Sake jug and three small Sake
glasses on a small platter. Everything was placed on the end table
next to his recliner. With silent patience he poured us our shots.
     "Look, something is happening to me," I stated. "It's not just
paranoia, because I don't have any fucking reason to be paranoid!"
     "It's not every day someone washes up ashore on their own
bed," Gavin agreed. He lifted his small cup, as I did mine. 
     We toasted the drink with a chorus of "Kanpai" and then gulped
down our mouthfuls of rice wine. Bold liquid heat flooded my mouth.
I could feel it working its way down to my stomach.
     Gavin let out a pleased sigh as he set his cup down for a
reload. "You could be just hallucinating. Mind you, I'm not a
psychologist. But it sounds like you want to forget about this
reality so much that your brain is blurring the difference between
the fantasy of Anime and your actual life."
     "I'm starting to wonder if they are actually being distorted,"
I answered him. "Look, if you want I can show you my apartment. You
can still smell the saltwater in it. And right after that, I had a
shower to try and calm myself down. And I swear to you that someone
else was in there with me."
     Gavin gave me a pointed look. "You don't have a shower. You
have a stall that can maybe fit two standing people if you're
lucky. Not much use for foreplay, I'll admit.
     "Why else would these dreams or whatever they are cling to a
Sailormoon guise? You've been under enough pressure as it is
working to retire from fanfiction--but the stories you want to
finish are taking their sweet time to reach an epilogue. Added to
that are the pleasures of work and bills, and your attempt to start
writing something original. Could just as easily be a result of
insomnia."
     At this I could only sigh.
     Gavin was right, but happily he let this fact register in
thought and not in vocal words. He knew well enough when not to
press certain issues with me. Other times would warrant a much-
needed push, but not this time. It was true, I was starting to
succumb to the tensions of the life with which I busied myself. Yet
there was the sense of something more than that.
     Something I could not as of yet name.
     Gavin's voice brought me back to the reason I had come here.
"Sake's ready. Drink up." We drank, and as he refilled our glasses
he remarked rather casually, "You like her, don't you?"
     I turned my gaze away from the clear, steaming liquid being
poured into my small cup. "What?"
     "Makoto," Gavin said, switching glasses to pour a shot for
himself. "Sailor Jupiter."
     "Are we going to start this up again?" I asked, perhaps a
little too sharply. I had been through arguments like this before,
of why I didn't watch something "more sophisticated" and "adult."
Gavin ribbed me every now and again, all in good nature--but it
still could get to me.
     "I know what you're thinking," Gavin said. He paused and
slammed back his Sake. "Sailormoon was the first Anime that you saw
before becoming an otaku. It was your staple Anime when you were a
newbie. You've been fiercely devoted to it for years. Hell, you've
got three complete seasons of fansubs. But now you've seen a lot
more Anime, and you find yourself drifting away from Sailormoon."
     "It's been like that for months," I agreed. "I've ranted well
enough about my intentions to retire from SM fanfiction."
     The sense of growing closure had first been but a seed in my
mind almost six months ago. That I had written all I could for this
series and genre. That it was time to step down and let other
aspiring authors take my place.
     To move on was not a trendy thing to do for me. The question
of whether or not to retire had been there long enough for me to
know that it was indeed time to start winding down.
     Gavin must have read the somber expression on my face, and
laughed as only a good friend could. "It's nothing to be worried
about. As ironic a statement that is for guys like us watching
animated shows, you're growing up. As an otaku, you're broadening
your horizons. The infatuation is over, long live the eternal
passion." 
     He paused for a moment, giving me an appraising look. I felt
like an artefact under glass or upon a pedestal at a museum. "Wild
guess: you feel guilty, because in a lot of ways, Sailormoon was
your first love in the Anime world. Believe me, I was like that
too, with Sailormoon as well as other Anime. But just because it's
not my all-consuming passion any longer doesn't mean I've lost all
fondness for it."
     "So I'm hallucinating out of a guilt trip?" I retorted.
     Gavin shrugged, finishing off the last shot of Sake on his
own. "No idea. But you look like hell. Go home and get some sleep."
     I must have given him the most incredulous look ever, because
he started to laugh.
     "What?" he said to me. "I don't have all the answers, my
friend. The greater part of life is a mystery, and for as much as
we think we know, we really don't know the half of it. So I'm not
going to deny that there's a lot of things in this world we can't
explain, but you'd be hard-pressed to get me to admit that some
kind of Anime nexus has opened up inside your apartment."
     We parted ways after that.
     Gavin retired to his bed, where Gilliam had no doubt continued
to peacefully sleep through our entire discussion. I was left to
walk the sunlit streets alone, making my way to my apartment. And
with both wonder and fear asking myself what awaited me the next
time I fell under the influence of sleep.


     While it had been but a dismissive remark, Gavin had grasped
from a mere second-hand retelling what had eluded me in all of the
experiences combined. Aside from a deepening psychosis, it made the
most sense. The most impossible sense, but it gave me a glimpse
into understanding.
     What's more, it had served as fuel for a literary fire. As I
worked at my job for the afternoon and into the evening, my
thoughts refused to cease churning through ideas and dialogue and
possible concepts never before imagined. Endorphins for your Muse.
     As I sat down to write with the golden tendrils of the setting
sun reaching into my window, I knew that I would be regretting it
sometime later in the morning. Tonight would find no rest for the
wicked. And likewise no rest for the ones haunted by a story
demanding to be brought to life.
     I listened to the cyborg-driven melodies of Ghost In The Shell
as my fingers danced their way across my computer keyboard. A scene
was unfolding, painted in words and paragraphs and descriptions of
places that defied the known workings of the universe. Of realms
birthed solely by imagination. I was driven further, deeper into my
story.
     Writing of dreams. Writing of dialogue.
     Questioning everything I thought I knew.
     Daring to ask myself if there was something more.
     The answer continued to flit this way and that across my
pages, my story, refusing to bend to my desires and sit still. It
moved, teased me in its flirting. To be caught for an instant
within my grasp, and then having vanished from between my palms.
Such was the way this story wished to play. Frustrating at times,
yes, but it drove me onwards to the next scene.
     Always onwards.
     When at last the words began to seem like a muddled babble of
incoherent thoughts, and my apartment was bathed in darkness and
shadow, I pushed away from my desk. Removed my glasses and rubbed
my sore, weary eyes. The story was saved to be continued later.
     With a weary but satisfied sigh I turned to my bedside clock.
     2:59
     Earlier than usual, given the hours this story seemed to want
to work with me. Even still I was not about to object. I sat back
in my chair, watching the computer power down. The screen went
black and reflected the interior of my apartment. Then it reflected
movement within the interior of my apartment.
     My eyes saw, and I spun around in my chair.
     The apartment was unchanged.
     The shadows had been altered.
     I could see it as I gazed into the darker corners of my home,
in the way darkness shifted against darkness. Like it was no longer
just a shadow, but something more. A gateway. A living entity. With
very drawn-out and pronounced movements I rose from my chair and
walked towards my bathroom. There, nestled between the open doorway
of my bathroom and the corner of the wall, something shifted.
     Pitch black changing its ways and motions with subtle
movements. My mind raced in recalling the past, and gave me reason
to test the present. My hand reached out, fingers moving into
shadow. Expecting to strike wall. I moved forward and further
still. Ever probing. Ever finding something beyond the shadows
other than my wall. 
     Whispers reached my ears, prodded forth by my touch.
     Abruptly I retracted my hand, recoiling and bringing it back
close to my chest as a pang of fear seized me. The whispers and
giggles of laughter came from within. All I could see was darkness;
nothing beyond that was known to me. If I wanted answers, if I
wanted silence, I would have to take a step forward.
     Make a leap of faith.
     A leap into madness.
     My eyes closed. Breath was drawn in. And I steeled my resolve
as I walked forward. The darkness swallowed me up, and then I
journeyed into the Dark. At first everything was darkness,
engulfing the world and the senses. I continued to walk, blind and
mute and deaf all at once.
     Then one by one my senses were returned to me.
     Shadows.
     They were a liquid essence, as if gazing into an ocean that
had no light to reflect, no moon for the waves to catch shimmering
rays in their movements. Bubbles coursed and surged from a midnight
far below, playful and transparent spheres floating upwards to a
midnight far above.
     Weightlessness could only describe the sensation.
     The edges of my shirt and pants rippled, touched by winds that
could neither be seen nor felt. All amidst this darkness that was
everywhere. And yet I was nowhere, lost inside an expansive
nothingness that seemed like oblivion.
     Yet I had thoughts.
     And emotions--most of them being confusion and apprehension
and questioning again if this was really happening to me. And thus
I knew I was still alive, though perhaps lost to reason.
     The bubbles surged once more, rising upwards and then
vanishing into higher echelons of shadow. A few seconds later an
echo followed, dozens of low and leisurely pops at the heart of a
constant liquid frothing.
     Outlines appeared, of objects and solid things one could touch
and grasp and know to be real. Out from the womb of oblivion and
into the warm embrace of existence. And I revelled in the comfort
of just knowing I was alive.
     Such was the way of the Dark.
     I had written of it, and understood a part of it.
     And the Dark melted to become a forest. Wordlessly I began to
walk through it, descending further into a realm painted in shades
of green and grey. Bamboo shoots, a dull if not opaque brown,
towered over my head. Left to grow for themselves, the plants had
become near domineering in their form. Clusters of leaves growing
out from the shoots, short and lush in their emerald colour,
rustled gently as a morning wind filtered through the area.
     The ground beneath my bare feet was damp, moist, fertile. I
didn't care if my feet got dirty. Such superficial notions had no
place here amidst the quiet awe and mystery. Grasses and mud came
together in a patchwork form that was seamless in appearance,
interrupted by the large and scattered rocks that stood out from
the garden paradise. Yet the rocks themselves held a place here,
one of solidarity and serenity in their shades of grey. As if moved
deliberately, each rock found a sitting where it only seemed
natural for them to be. Smooth in texture, some places covered in
a dense green moss, they were a reminder of something.
     My eyes looked to the skies. Found only a canopy of darkness
beyond the veil of vegetation around them. No stars or moon or
cosmic sky. Just darkness. I lowered my gaze back to the uneven
world of the forest sanctuary, taking in the sights and sounds.
     Everything was aglow in a strange light. A watercolour of
distinct and faded realms, some pieces of this paradise blurring
together in a single hue, gradually becoming lighter and lighter
until green no longer remained. The forest was alive in a haunting
shimmer that made every image, every last detail, seem as if it
were a mere dream. 
     At least it was a beautiful dream to walk within. It would
make for fanciful stories to the ones who would presume that this
was only a dream and nothing more.
     I could hear the air blowing through the bamboo shoots, the
sounds of various animals and birds both unseen and unidentifiable.
And water...I could hear running water. Very faint, hushed as if
trying to hide its presence. A few footsteps later I found a brook,
shallow yet vibrant in its tiny life as water flowed and frothed
around the rocky bottom. All the stones were smooth, rounded, black
and glistening from the water's reflective quality.
     The water was cold as it soaked my feet and the bottom rim of
my jeans. I didn't complain. Didn't speak. Only made my way towards
what I knew was my destination, and watched. The brook was soon
behind me, and then the bamboo trees cleared away. Where the tides
of vegetation ended, a new world inside this realm began.
     A grand, one-story building of ancient Japanese architecture
stood before me. All constructed of wood, all with sliding
paper-screen doors. Carefully I stepped onto the veranda, pausing
to push aside one of the fusama.
     The room itself held nothing in terms of furniture. I let it
be, opening a lighter shoji screen and walking into the hallway. My
head was turned in seeing a garden enclosed by all four sides of
this estate. A garden that held with it a pond teeming with fish,
and a small bridge that ran over the waters. Reeds and smaller
bamboo plants were arranged accordingly around this central piece.
Everything was painstakingly crafted and assembled; the aesthetics
of the details were breathtaking.
     So much to take in, and too much for the senses to absorb all
at once. I was forced to close my eyes and lean against a wooden
beam for support. Chanting over and over to myself the doubts of
what I was experiencing.
     'This is just a page from a story I wrote...It isn't real...It
can't be real...It might be real...What if it is real?...What
then?'
     What then?
     A random gust of wind surged past me. 
     Delicate petals of the sakura trees drifted down from above
like rain.
     Shimenawa rustled. 
     One of my eyes opened slightly, and watched the folded
ornaments dangling from between the pillars sway in the breeze.
Objects meant to signify a sacred place, a realm where the gods
dwelled. I didn't feel like a god right then. As an author, I was
technically the Creator of this realm. But no longer did I feel
like this place in the Dark belonged to me. It had taken on a life
of its own. I was no more its keeper than a complete stranger.
     A private universe, where a traveller from the shadows could
watch four seasons pass by in a single day. The morning came with
gentle showers. Early afternoons were hot, sometimes humid, and the
air would be chattering with cicadas. When came the evening, the
sakura trees bloomed and it rained these fragile pink blossoms. And
as the night fell, so would the snow.
     I could hear echoed songs of the windchimes, a welcome
disturbance from the incessant chirping of the hidden cicadas. But
I could also hear the quiet breathing of another. With open eyes I
turned my head, and saw her sitting upon the veranda a few steps
away from me.
     Her legs dangled over the edge, her bare feet touching the
grass of the garden. She wore a beautiful kimono of silk, painted
with designs beyond anything I could have dreamed of. Long blonde
hair spilled down past her shoulders, gently caressing her skin as
the winds stirred them.
     Aino Minako.
     She turned her head to look at me. Blue eyes flashing demon
red, becoming like the slitted eyes of a cat. "Your worlds," she
said, capturing a cherry blossom in the palm of her hand, both of
us watching the vibrant solitude within the orchard garden.
"They're quite unlike any other I have experienced."
     My eyes were cast to the dancing pink petals falling all
around us. I was tempted to try and catch a blossom within my own
hand, but was afraid. Afraid of what it might mean, in bringing
truth or deceit.
     A sakura petal would tell me nothing.
     Minako could.
     But as my mouth was opened to ask for an answer, my voice was
stolen by hers. "She's waiting for you, once this is finished."
Minako leaned back, propped up by her arms. She smiled and enjoyed
the haunting shimmer of this realm, soaking it up like sunshine.
"If you can wait a little longer, if you can love for a little
longer, then you will find her."
     With a mischievous grin she playfully added, "After all,
absence of your heart will kill you."
     A deliberate slip-up.
     Meant to make me smile and find some peace of mind.
     It worked.
     I laughed a little, shaking my head in amusement and numbness.
To think I was slowly but noticeably growing accustomed to this. To
think that now perhaps I even wanted this to happen again. If it
was a hallucination, then what a wonderful hallucination to be lost
inside of.
     When I looked back at Minako, she was gone.
     I wasn't surprised.
     The blonde girl's words lingered in my mind, beating
rhythmically with my heart. An end was promised. And with it a
potential reward. All I had to do was wait a little longer. Love a
little longer. Not allow myself to be overcome with the confusion
and the doubts. 
     I leaned against the wooden beam, smiling to myself as the
Dark slowly faded to black and the beam became the doorframe of my
bathroom. My gaze drifted to the wall scroll over my bed, of that
smiling face, those emerald green eyes, that long chestnut brown
hair.
     She was waiting.
     Makoto was waiting.
     Waiting for me....



     Lovers and madmen have such seething brains
     Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
     More than cool reason comprehends
     The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
     Are of imagination all compact

                    -A Midsummer Night's Dream
                         Act V, scene i



     The subway ride home from my workplace was uneventful, as was
the walk to my apartment when I parted ways from the bus that came
for me. The sun was setting and the air was growing cool. Fallen
leaves and forgotten newspapers swirled around, bouncing along the
road as they were driven by the winds. And when I unlocked my front
door and stepped inside, I found a man within my apartment.
     "I know you," I stated.
     He nodded, still staring out through the window. The bed had
been pulled away from the wall to give him leg room. He sat upon
the edge of the mattress, one leg propped up on the windowframe.
Black hair followed the curve of his head, dissolving into black
robes and armour upon his body. He wore no cloak, carried no sword.
A soldier without a war to fight, but still a princess to protect.
     "We meet at last," he said.
     His eyes never left the world beyond the window.
     I closed and locked the door, tossing my jacket onto the
chair. Joined him at the far side of the bed, staring out the
window into the darkening summer skies.
     Beyond the pane laid something I could only describe as an
impossibility of my world. An upside-down realm, where below my
head churned a seemingly endless cloudline. Far above laid the
lofty towers and spires of a majestic palace. A dizzying height, a
grandiose view which made me question my sense of balance and
direction
     "Aurora," I said. "The upside-down duelling arena."
     I had written this once. Now it was alive and outside my
window.
     My voice was calm.
     And for once, my uninvited guest was calm to begin with.
     He sat there, unmoving save for the small rising and settling
of the armour over his chest as he breathed the air. "The easiest
way to find you is to use these places drawn from your mind. You
once used these stories to call us into being, and so we are merely
returning the favour."
     "Stepping stones?"
     "Hai."
     "You're the first to actually talk to me," I said. "The others
just spoke and I could only listen."
     Again he nodded.    
     "My time here is short," he stated. "I'm not supposed to give
you any help, as this journey is yours alone to make. They would
object to my being here in the first place, which is why I must be
brief."
     I laughed, shaking my head.
     He glanced at me out from the corner of his vision, inquiring
with his eyes as to what I found so amusing.
     "I could be losing my mind, for all I know," I told him.
"Talking to someone next to me who isn't really there."
     Endymion never looked away from the window, never looked to me
or at me. His roving eyes searched out the vast up-down reversal
beyond this pane of glass. "Do you still believe?" he asked.
     My final decision was ambiguous at best. "It's easier to
believe in a dream than it is a reality."
     "Reality is only half of what makes the man," he told me. "It
is what you do with reality that defines the rest of who you are.
Dreams are manifestations of this; they reflect your regrets,
hopes, and passions. To give into pure reality, or pure fantasy,
would destroy you. A balance must always be maintained."
     I looked out the window once more.
     Only inversion met with my gaze.
     I said to Endymion, "You sound like a friend of mine."
     For a moment, a smile seemed to pull at the corners of the
prince's lips. "Sounds like a friend worth listening to."
     He slowly rose to his feet, and with a gesture of the hand let
the window open itself. A gust of evening air excitedly rushed past
me, mingling with the stuffy heat of my apartment. I could hear the
whistle of the winds now; I might as well have been standing upon
that upside-down arena.
     A covered palm was unveiled, and within it rested a single red
rose. Endymion reached out the window, fingers splayed. The flower
was released, caught by the winds and falling
upwards...downwards...to where Aurora's palace awaited.
     An end to its descent.
     "It won't get any easier for you," he said, still choosing to
watch the falling rose rather than watch me. "Question the ending,
and the beginning. By comparison, everything that happens in
between those two points will seem like child's play."
     Slowly Endymion turned his head, bangs of dark hair fluttering
around his face as two cobalt eyes rested upon me. I recognised
that smile on his face, one I had seen in so many episodes. 
     "Makoto's been looking forward to this for a long time," he
told me. "And you don't want to keep a lady waiting now, do you?"
     My eyes found the wall scroll with her face upon it.
     I could only agree with him. "No, I don't."


     Who's to say what dreams will do to you once the disbelief is
suspended? Do you blindly accept what you see, even though it may
not be wholly what you think it is? Do you take it all with a
degree of healthy scepticism, born and reared from that ancient
instinct of self-preservation...from the desire to never be hurt?
     To be a human being means to interact.
     Relate.
     Risk getting hurt by someone else.
     Better, some might say, to live alone and apart from the world
and everyone in it. The best person you can trust, the only person
who will not hurt you, is yourself. But even then all people crave
companionship and intimacy of some kind.
     Regardless of the risks, I could not leave what I had seen and
touched and heard to my own devices. Gavin was the one I trusted,
for if he hurt me the hurt was intended to heal. I knew he would
challenge my latest dream...vision...whatever curious twist of fate
and colliding of worlds I had experienced.
     Deep down a part of me wanted to him to accept and agree with
what I was starting to believe. But who can believe in the
impossible when there's nothing to prove it can be reached? Yet
while he argued against me, he did it as only a friend could. Not
with rude laughs and statements that "You're nuts", but with a
gentle thoughtfulness.
     More than anything, he listened.
     Then he listened more.
     And finally he was silent as he considered what I had told him
about the Dark--my Dark--and the Senshi I had met there. He sat
there in his recliner, Gilliam happily resting on his lap and
enjoying a good back-scratching, his brow furrowed as he mulled
over the words she had spoken to me.
     "You make it sound like they're doing the work to slowly break
through whatever barriers exist," he said finally. One hand reached
over to grasp his tea cup, the other hand never ceasing to run
fingers through Gilliam's fur.
     "That's what I thought too, at first," I said from my place
upon his couch. I had opted for a Coke, needing the caffeine boost.
It had been a few nights since the encounter with Endymion, and
those nights had been spent at the computer writing more of my
story. 
     In the wake of my encounters came the possession to write.
     The ending was still undiscovered and unknown.
     "But," I added. "That doesn't feel completely right. They are
making the effort from their end, I'll agree. Maybe working some
sort of integration...but I feel as if I have to do something
myself."
     Gavin chuckled. "What? Prove yourself?"
     I nodded. "Something like that. It doesn't sound too
farfetched, to be honest."
     "That it does not," Gavin replied, pausing to take a drink of
his tea. "They open the door, but you have to make that step across
the threshold. You've written about it yourself: you can only get
to heaven once you've walked through the fires of hell. That's the
test of love, and how far you're willing to go."
     I grinned in taking a swig of my Coke. "It sounds almost like
you're starting to believe me."
     "There's a vast difference between starting to believe, and
actually believing," Gavin countered with an amused grin. "Here I
am listening to the romantic rantings from someone who's probably
seen a little too much shoujo Anime...but I know you too well. You
are certainly making me wonder."
     "Pretend we know that what's happening is real, and not some
self-induced fantasy," I said, leaning forward on the couch.
"Makoto's waiting for me somewhere out there. And I think I'm
willing to risk life and sanity to bridge whatever chasm lies
between us."
     I lifted my eyes to his, searching for any help.
     Gavin didn't have all the answers.
     But he always knew how to point me in the right direction.
     "Is that love?" I asked him.
     Settling back into his chair, his one hand absently stroking
the fur on Gilliam's head, Gavin sighed. "Let me give you a warning
courtesy of Nietzsche: 'In the end one loves one's desire, and not
what is desired.' If it's the obsession of her that drives you
forward as opposed to her alone, then you've already sealed your
fate."
     "Isn't all love like that?"
     "Maybe," Gavin said, shrugging. "Personally, I think all human
beings, myself included, are too emotionally immature to fully
grasp what love really is. Or to comprehend the true depths of what
love is. We can very easily scrape the bottom of superficiality and
call it love."
     That sounded as if love was to be discounted completely.
     "Is love even real?" I asked him. "Is there such a thing as
true love, a passion beyond the infatuation?"
     Gavin nodded solemnly. "Everyone needs hope, even the darkest
of cynics. I believe there is such a thing as true love, something
which defies anything and everything because it simply wills itself
to. And it can exist within stories, within a world of characters
created by an author who found an obsession and purpose." 
     He paused, looking down at Gilliam. What he spoke next was
more to himself, but I still heard him. "But we could just as
easily be characters in a story, one still being written by a
divine author." 
     Gavin turned to me then. 
     "If such a thing is true," he said. "then there is such a
thing as true love. And it exists in this world too, not just in
storybooks that end with the words 'happily ever after.'"
     We parted ways shortly thereafter.
     He had a bar to tend in a few hours.
     I had a literary possession to return to.
     My steps were brisk and injected with strange vibrancy as I
made my way to the subway station not too far from where Gavin
resided. Only once did I stop, ending my momentum to stare at a
white cat darting across traffic. From the opposite side of the
street it paused and looked at me.
     And just as a passing car blocked us from the other's view in
a blur of motion and colour, I saw the golden crescent moon upon
its forehead. By the time the car had passed us by, and that had
only been but a fraction of a heartbeat, the cat was gone.
     That just made me smile.
     I was starting to question everything.
     I was starting to understand.
     My hastened steps cast me underground, down the stairs and
into the gullet of the subway station. A train was waiting there to
take me closer to home and a story that was growing impatient. The
car I chose to slip into was not empty, nor was it so full that
there was standing room only. Regardless I chose to stand.
     Chimes sounded.
     The doors closed with a loud hiss of air.
     The subway car lurched as the train pulled away.
     Within a few seconds of gained momentum it passed into a
tunnel, and ever so briefly there was a moment when my world was
plunged into total darkness. The lights in the car were back. But
I immediately noticed a new passenger standing there at the far end
of the car.
     She stood, her body swaying slightly to the motions of the
subway car. Not minding the jolts of forward and backward motion as
the train slowed and sped. No one else seemed to take notice of her
or her sudden appearance but me.
     Even then I simply remained where I stood and watched her.
     Just as she watched me.
     Ravendark hair framed her pale face, bringing out the shimmer
of her violet eyes. An aristocratic of fashionable goth might have
described the clothing she wore: of black on black, dark colours
accented with a red jacket worn over her sweater and pleated skirt.
     Tomoe Hotaru.
     The subway car was plunged into total shadow for another
instant as we began to pull into the next station. The shadows
stayed, fed off the darkness around me. And I found myself standing
upon an ocean that seemed to have no end. Something shifted beneath
me, yet as it rose up the water's surface remained untouched and
still. As if the air itself was pushing me away and taking shape. 
     And it was an Auroran dragon, black like the iron metal it was
forged from. Its flight was graceful for a creature that did not
breathe. Perhaps there was a dragon's soul in the machine.
     Or perhaps she was its soul.
     Hotaru walked calmly, magestically, on the water below me.
Tiny ripples radiated out with each gentle footstep that touched
the liquid surface. Her expression seemed almost void of emotion,
and yet there was a warmth in her lips that was brought out through
her gentle smile.
     The iron dragon rumbled, the enormous and elaborate joints of
its neck shifting to lower its head in reverence to the young woman
standing before me upon the water. Hotaru looked at me, and her
eyes gave me cause to cautiously step back. 
     A wind swept past us, the serenity of the water disrupted by
ripples and white crests of foam that playfully licked her feet.
The iron dragon hovered in vigilance before its mistress,
frighteningly still. 
     Hotaru never moved, never changed, though everything else
around me was changing. She was the only constant. Those eyes of
violet wonder never broke their gentle gaze from me. Ripples flowed
around her feet once more as she began to walk closer to me.
     The iron dragon took its head and sank beneath the water, just
enough of its face and snout left dry for her to step up onto the
beast without getting wet. Noiselessly the joints of its neck
worked to raise her above the watery floor. The world around faded
to darkness and I was left there in the shadows to look at her atop
a metal steed.
     "And you," I asked, though not without the fondness for a
Senshi who was a very close second in terms of personal endearment.
"What do you have to say to me, Hotaru-chan?"
     Hotaru looked down at me, and then down deeper to the water
beneath my feet. Her lips did not move. Yet I heard her whisper
tickling the lobes of my ears as if she were so tantalisingly close
behind me.
     "For as strong as she is, her heart is fragile."
     The dim sound of the clatter of wheels against subway tracks
echoed all around me. And it was growing louder. The darkness began
to dissolve. Flicker. Cascade down around me in slits of light and
shadow, flashing in rapid succession. Overtaking my vision.
     It was getting harder to maintain focus upon the silhouette of
the iron dragon. I turned my head, listening to the sound of the
subway train grow louder. And for all that vocal babylon I could
still hear Hotaru's whisper over it all.
     "Make her cry, abandon her, destroy her beautiful dreams...and
I will come for you."
     A darker statement, far from the "Yurusenai!" I had heard so
often. But the point was delivered with chilling resonant clarity.
I shivered, turning my entire body. My stance shifted. I looked
behind. To my left. Ahead of me. To my right.
     Everything was drowning in blurring clashes of light from
passing subway car windows and the darkness that dominated the
underground. And then with a loud roar the air around me went
frenzied. 
     A hiss.
     A stop.
     And I found myself standing in front of my apartment. To ask
how I had bypassed the subway station and the busride home wasn't
a question worth the consideration. I fumbled with my keys, frantic
to unlock the door and be granted access to my story. I knew the
next scene I wanted to write. The next scene the story wanted me to
write.
     I sat down after slamming my door shut.
     The lock turned itself and sealed me inside.
     A stray glance went to the growing darkness of night outside
my window. I began to smile. And write.


     "Look, I'm thrilled to no end that you seem to be living out
your dream," Gavin told me. His voice was raised, and I could hear
the Irish blood burning through his words. "But you have to
remember that this is still reality. Sure, it may be fucked up.
Fucked up royally even. But that is still something we have to deal
with, no matter how bloody unpleasant it is. Retreating into a
cell-drawn delusion is no way to go through life."
     "How do you know it's a delusion?" I asked. "Can you be sure?"
     His expression was serious. From behind his elliptical lenses
he examined my body and soul. A penetrating gaze that I met with
growing defiance. There was silence in the distance between us and
for once it was strained.
     "You really do believe they're real, don't you?" he asked me
finally. "That they're appearing to you."
     I shook my head. "I don't know what to believe. But isn't it
possible that my dreams somehow becoming real?"
     Gavin's tea was ignored. His pipe had yet to be lit. Gilliam
was pacing the floor, ignorant of our exchange of words, concepts
and a conflicts. "Listen," Gavin said solemnly. "When the line
between fantasy and reality is blurred, it means one--and I stress
only one--of two possibilities: you're either delusional, or you've
been fucking with some cosmic force you weren't meant to touch."
     "But what if I'm right?" I asked. Long since unable to simply
sit and debate. I was pacing with Gilliam trotting behind my every
footstep. "What if I am crossing the line between? What if, like
you said, there's some kind of Anime nexus in my apartment?"
     "Then I have every right to be as concerned as I feel," Gavin
stated. "You're opening a Pandora's Box; there's no telling what's
waiting for you, or even where or when it's waiting. Remember
that."



     We work in the dark--we do what we can--
     we give what we have.
     Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task.
     The rest is the madness of art.

                    -Henry James (1843-1916)



     The clock beside my bed, with its blood-red digital numbers,
told of me the time. And it was 4:51. Newborn hours of the morning.
My hands felt exhausted, my mind pleasantly numb. How many more
pages had been breathed to life tonight? The prospect of burning
out from writing too much too fast was a fear that could no longer
touch me.
     I had to laugh at the strange juggernaut power a human being
could harness when they were sufficiently pushed. Limitations
became merely stepping stones. Everything for me now was a stepping
stone. Somewhere in between the ending and the beginning. 
     Culminating yet never-ending.
     With a sigh that probably sounded as if I were slowly coming
down from the throes of sexual climax, I leaned back in my chair
and pushed away from my computer. The screen went blank as
everything powered down, my story safe and my possession abated for
another night. 
     If I smoked, I might have had the urge to light up a
cigarette. Let the orange glow of the burning embers bring minute
sparks of light to this darkened apartment. Then I might draw in a
deep breath, only to exhale and blow the grey mist out through the
open French doors of the balcony where my kitchen had once been. 
     I was tired, but satisfied.
     The swivel chair slowly rotated and let me see her silhouette
better. She sat with her back propped up against the bottom left
corner of the doorframe, the balcony's elegant double doors flung
wide open to the world beyond my walls. Upon her chest she wore a
wrinkled, white dress shirt. Sleeves rolled back to the elbow, only
the middle button done up, barely covering her naked body. 
     Tenou Haruka.
     The lights from the sea of buildings and neon signs, above and
below and across the street, shone bright enough to flood the
darkened room with veils of scant illumination. 
     Revealing only shadows and silhouettes.
     The drone of passing traffic on the streets beneath us stayed
constant. Creating a strange quietude. Enticing one to forget all
tensions. To forget it all and sleep. To sleep peacefully like the
one in my bed. Wrapped up comfortably within the white sheets,
wearing them like a warm second skin. Arms and legs tangled amidst
satin, with a blanket of golden hair covering an angelic form.
     I returned my gaze to the nocturnal cityscape.
     Though the small marble pedestal had not been there minutes
ago, I walked over to it and plucked from its display the three
wine glasses and the bottle of '57 European Merlot. Haruka said
nothing as I approached her, taking my own place on the other side
of the doorframe. 
     She soon removed her gaze from the cityscape outside this
balcony and its curving, iron-frame balustrade. Blue eyes shifted
to the shadows within and beheld another woman joining us at the
open French doors, aqua-green hair draped down over her shoulders. 
     Kaio Michiru.
     They shared a warm, brief kiss.
     "You pour," Michiru instructed me.
     I complied.
     Uncorked the bottle and poured the wine. The pitch of the bold
liquid flowing into its glass cylinders grew steadily higher. As I
performed this duty, Haruka let one of her hands stretch forth and
caress the aqua-haired woman's naked chest. Dressed in liquid
moonbeams, Michiru's supple form was more temptation than could be
resisted. 
     I knew she was not for me, and regardless I was being tempted
by her alabaster skin and elegant smile. My focus remained as much
as it could on the pouring of the wine. Both Outer Senshi let their
roaming fingers leave each other's bodies to take up a glass.
     With glasses filled and raised, we quietly toasted to the
night and its inspirations.
     "What do you plan to do once you meet her?" Michiru asked me.
     I had to wait a moment, nearly choking on the bold and
overpowering taste of the red wine. Something that was an acquired
taste before it could be appreciated. I was used to Sake, but not
this. "I'm not sure," I answered. "You haven't told me what to
expect."
     Haruka grinned like a wolf. "Kiss her like a gentleman should.
Honour her like the lady she wants to be. And in bed, worship her
like the goddess she is."
     I nodded, daring to sip the Merlot again. My eyes turned to
Michiru. "You teach her that?" I inquired.
     Michiru let her fingers drift along Haruka's loose shirt in
caressing waves. "Among other things, yes."
     

     Gavin reclined in his chair, scratching at the shadow upon his
chin. "I'll play your game for the moment," he said. "We're not
going to get anywhere if we just shout our ideas from across a
chasm. So let me join you from your perspective, and show you
what's wrong."
     His hand reached over, fingers gently wrapping around his
pipe.
     "You're a fanfic author," he stated, holding the match to the
small amount of tobacco stuffed into the pipe. "You know what it
means to play with author avatars."
     I nodded.
     Such controversial indulgences were not uncommon, and were
usually met with overwhelming amounts of shunning and disdain. To
insert yourself either directly or indirectly as a new character in
the story. As a writer, my philosophy was that for as much as I was
endeared with any character, there was a defining line between what
I adored and what the story required. It gave me the distance
needed to write objectively, even if I objected to what the story
did to my characters.
     Sometimes they had to suffer.
     Sometimes they had to die.
     Sometimes they had to be left behind, be left alone.
     Gavin continued, "You're only an avatar if you have the power,
if you're in control of the world around you. And that world is a
story, nothing more but certainly nothing less. A story is a
creation, and in that story the author is God. If he or she so
chooses to self-insert themselves, they can play with any
characters in any season. Do whatever they want. Usually I find
they wind up in love or in bed with the character of their choice.
With an avatar involved, conventional rules no longer apply.
     "But you're walking into a world you really know nothing
about. There's no guarantee you'll be like an avatar if you
actually wind up in their version of Tokyo. You could go in and
have your memory erased. You could wind up some person living in
Tokyo who only hears about the urban legend of the Senshi. You
could be just a one-episode cameo who gets his whatever ripped out.
     "Hell, you could wind up finding yourself a villain. And I
haven't even talked about the unexplored possibilities. Nothing's
really known about the Silver Millennium, or after that whole
Nemesis attack in the R season. You could wind up there. Even if
you went in armed with all your knowledge about the Anime, it would
mean jack all. And then you'll really be up the fucking river.
     "To be a part of something that is only fiction, to live a
life more fantastic than this: the dream of every otaku." Gavin's
eyes lifted and stared at me, smoke escaping his mouth as he drew
out another breath. "But you're chasing after a sunset. It's only
a pipe dream."
     I spoke up, not to defend or to rebuke. But to state: "Dreams
are what keep us alive."
     "And they have a habit of getting us killed too."
     "It's all about risk, Gavin."
     Are you willing to risk it all?


     The next day I met a woman as I walked through the downtown
streets of the city I knew and lived within. Amidst the legions of
other human beings walking this world, I knew she was different.
The summer heat had begun to seriously incite its wrath upon those
who could not retaliate with air conditioning. I found myself
subjected to sweat and humid breath as I moved down the sidewalk,
dodging those I passed and those walking in different directions
from me.
     The fact that I was outside and walking through the downtown
had nothing to do with work. With a few hours to claim for myself
between work and possession, I endeavoured to visit my local Anime
shop. Get hooked up with my favourite addiction. As a fansubber had
once written: 'Anime. Yes, drugs would be cheaper.'
     The store itself was tucked into a mall in the Chinatown
district. I watched the sunlight beat down upon my brow, watched
the pigeons flapping their wings as they searched and fell upon
random scraps of food and bread. Let the sea of people move past me
as I stayed one step ahead of the current. My hands stretched forth
to push the glass revolving doors.
     I walked through, gained access, and was presented with
something other than the interior of a Chinatown mall. It was
called the Hundred Gate: one portal, and hundreds of possible
futures. A realm where the Gate's mistress knew of certain key
events and their outcomes, but others were shrouded in the
enigmatic mysteries of time unknown.
     The revolving doors behind me slowly came to a stop. Only the
doorway and its glass panels existed here. Beyond the panes I could
see the people walk down the Chinatown streets lost in their own
thoughts and dreams and ambitions.
     I let my vision drift from one hovering mirror to the next,
here amidst a curious chamber where nothingness was matter itself.
Inside their reflections: small openings, glimpses into the past
and present and future. From all of these I could watch the
weavings of a tapestry of time unfold. 
     And I was not the lone member of the audience.
     As I left the revolving door behind me, venturing deeper into
this darkened Gate of hundreds of floating mirrors, I found
another. A woman, one with tanned skin and dark hair draped down
past her back. Timeless magenta eyes watched me.
     Meio Setsuna.
     A series of hauntingly beautiful chimes resonated together in
crystal clear perfection. I looked away from her as the chimes
echoed in my ears, so incredibly close my nerves were set on
electric fire.
     "What do you see?" Setsuna asked me in a quiet voice.
     The nearest mirror showed me what it wanted to.
     Nothing more than momentary glimpses.
     I saw an Egyptian Mau with white cherub wings floundering
about upon the sheets of a bed. Offside a mouse in a tiny Armani
suit sighed and shook its whiskers. The sight made me smirk; it was
good to appreciate humour, especially one's own.
     And then nothing.
     Again: "What do you see?"
     The mirror abruptly shifted to display another scene from
another time. I suddenly saw a peaceful countenance, of Makoto
holding on tightly to her raven angel. Feathered wings shimmering
black in eternal moonlight drifted down within the mirror like
snow.
     The mirror changed once more.
     And I saw myself inside of the Hundred Gate, staring into a
mirror with Setsuna standing but a few paces behind me. Her magenta
eyes bored into my back.
     Slowly my head turned and I faced her. Realising only face to
face that she was as tall as I was if not a few inches taller. That
made the encounter all the more intimidating. She looked at me.
Questioned me. Demanded of me.
     "Do you love her?"
     I glanced over my shoulder and saw the mirror's new
reflection. And I saw the dream I had once forgotten, where another
me stood upon the edge of a pool amidst a fallen lunarscape. My
response was a question not unlike hers. "I've come this far,
haven't I?"
     "But will you finish what was started?" Her voice was smooth
and almost hypnotic to listen to. Was she speaking Japanese and I
understood it like I did English? Was I speaking English and she
understood it like Japanese?
     Something I would never know.
     "Nothing's ever truly finished," I answered her. "Even the end
of the story leaves open the question of what the next sunrise or
sunset will bring."
     That caused Setsuna to smile approvingly. "At last," she
remarked, turning away and walking into the depths of her
neverwhere world. Tresses of long dark hair shone emerald in the
dim glow of this place. "You're finally learning."


     ICQ from Gavin today.
     *Dammit man, where are you?*
     It went unanswered.
     There was much to do.
     To do what I did best.
     And my time was running out.
     I placed a hand upon the wall scroll, caressed her silken face
with the side of my palm. "Soon," I whispered. "Soon...."


     Work continued as always.
     I did my duties, did what I was told, always smiled and was
courteous. But you cannot hide the euphoric madness. You never can.
My associates where I worked had already begun to notice the
changes. If not in the subtle mannerisms and behaviour, the sudden
quietude I had taken to (more than ever before), then in the world
within my eyes.
     The windows to the soul.
     What could they glimpse when they sought the world within
mine? Did they start to see what I had already been seeing and
tasting and touching and experiencing for days on end? And did it
frighten them to see the transition taking place? Did they feel the
discomfort of sensing that I was on the verge of breakthrough?
     On the last day of it all I went outside to clear my head. To
enjoy the sunshine and the warm air which was not sweltering and
humid for once. A storm was due to hit the city sometime in the
evening. Best to savour the world of the wandering soul while I
could still keep dry.
     I took the subway without incident to the university campus.
A place where there were expansive green gardens and wondrous
places to walk and roam. Lost amidst the moving students, a part of
the world and somewhere just on the edge of its borders. 
     The winds were as they always were, as blustery as they had
been all day. But as I walked down the student paths, they carried
with them a tremor in the sidewalk beneath my feet, echoing of
vibrations that drilled deep into the heart of the world.
     A new variant permeated the air.
     I turned my head and looked back the direction I'd come from,
and found only other students roaming wherever they pleased. No one
in particular caught my eye. No one had the look or feel that sent
another involuntary shiver down my spine. And so, albeit with a
little more caution now, I resumed my own walk.
     Moved beyond the campus and into the downtown area not so far
away, walking between the buildings and down the crosswalks.
Between parked cars, and in and out of stores that pandered to
whatever my whims called for.
     My nerves went electric again.
     I turned my head one more time.
     And I found the source.
     The boy could have been no older than eleven, standing no
higher than my shoulders. Rebellious bangs of perfectly brown hair
dangled around his eyes and stuck out everywhere else. A set of
grey earphones clung to the base of his neck, connected to the
bumblebee-yellow walkman fastened at his waist. His hands were
jammed into the pockets of his beige, baggy pants, with a white
shirt proclaiming a message of '34T L33T' at me.
     His smile was misplaced and wrong. It was the smile of
knowledge and experience no eleven year-old boy could ever possess.
He stood across the intersection from me, patiently waiting at the
edge of the sidewalk as cars moved between us. His eyes never
leaving my form. Eyes a colour I was unable to place. Eyes that did
too much dancing, even for an eleven year-old boy.
     His eyes.
     There was something shifting in the darkness of his pupils.
     Pure chaos.
     There was only one thing I could say: "Oh shit."
     The lights changed and the flow of traffic abated. Ignored by
the handful of other pedestrians crossing at the walk alongside
him, the boy worked his path to fatefully intersect with mine. The
closer he got the more I could see the chaos in his eyes.
     He never stopped watching me, though his head remained pointed
straight ahead. The boy paused as we brushed shoulders, facing
opposite directions but sharing a commonality.
     "Don't act so surprised to see us," he said. "We were your
favourite villain to play with. Shall we walk?"
     I was unable to refuse.
     If not for his eyes and smile he could have passed himself off
as human. His steps were smaller than mine, as his legs were
smaller than mine, yet he kept pace with me.
     "I was expecting Usagi, to be honest," I remarked, having
recovered from the initial surprise. Such a seemingly long time
since I had been surprised by any of this. "She's the only Senshi
left who hasn't visited me."
     "The system doesn't work that way," he/she/it stated.
     Chaos stated.
     "You'll meet the Neo Queen on the other side. Only on the
other side." The boy abruptly nodded his head left, and changed
directions.
     I had no idea where he was taking me, or what would happen
whenever he decided we'd reached our destination. But I was
perfectly content to follow the leader. Morbid fascination kept me
in rapt attention of the boy's every word and gesture.
     "The other side of what?" I asked him.
     The boy smiled. "Not death, if that's what you fear."
     He brought one of his hands in front of his face. All of a
sudden I seemed to mean nothing more than a passing and utterly
trivial thought as the boy studied his palm. He decided to wiggle
his fingertips in succession.
     "That doesn't help," I stated.
     "We've given you an answer. Interpret it as you wish. Our
purpose here is not to explain the mystery, only to point you in
the final direction."
     We turned again, and were cast beneath the shadow of a looming
office tower from across the street.
     "Why are you here anyways?" I asked it.
     "Curiousity," the boy replied simply. "You who took the time
to work with our essence and define it--though with an amateur's
degree of accuracy we might add."
     I scowled. "So I was wrong?"
     "Not as much wrong as you were misguided. But you were
starting to grasp the basic concepts and constructs that makes us
Chaos. You who exists with perhaps four or five incarnations
bearing our name within your oeuvre. Your own pseudonym intimates
an aristocratic variant of what we are. His lordship...beguiling,
charming and dangerous all at once."
     The boy turned his head ever so slightly, the shimmer of his
inhuman eyes caught by the light of the summer sun. The mouth he
wore curled itself into predatory smile. "Suffice to say, we were
quite intent on meeting you. You do so intrigue us."
     At this I let out a deep breath and shook my head. "And I
thought you were creepy enough just in the written form."
     The boy just gave me a knowing smile in response. Kept his
hands draped leisurely in his pockets. We stopped at another
intersection, waiting for the lights to change. That other people
were standing close enough to hear us didn't matter. I didn't care.
Neither did the entity inside the boy's skin.
     "When will she be coming?" I asked.
     "Tonight," he answered. "Don't hesitate, or else you'll lose
everything."
     "What do I need to bring?"
     "All that really matters." The boy flashed a disturbing grin,
and began to move across the road. Away from me. "We must part ways
now. But we'll see you around soon enough. Ja."
     I was left behind on the sidewalk, frozen in place from those
ominous words and his eerie smile. Gavin's warning suddenly didn't
seem so far-fetched.
     Yet I watched as the boy walked across the street and then
vanished. Engulfed by the blurs of moving people all around him. I
could have stood upon that street corner for easily five minutes or
five seconds, staring at the last place I had seen him.
     Then finally I turned away and walked towards the nearest
subway terminal. It would all end and begin tonight. That much had
been decided. The story had only perhaps five or six more pages
left before its culmination. Possession began to worm its way into
my system.
     It was time to write.
     Time to say good-bye.
     Time for everything to change.



     So gather up your jackets move it to the exits
     I hope you have found a friend
     Closing time
     Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end

                    -Semisonic, "Closing Time"



     All revised fairy tales end with 'happily ever after.'
     Meant to make children believe the world is a sunshine
friendly place. Not realising that with light comes shadow. Reality
has a way of seeping through the false idealisms and contaminating
the sugar-coated promises.
     Happily ever after is a valid enough ending. Does the world
need it so badly that it forgets that a story need not be so happy
for the ending to still be worthwhile?
     "My stories don't work that way," I stated. The stabbing
clarity of maniacal brilliance was starting to cut through the fog
and confusion clouding my mind. "What they're doing isn't working
that way. There will be no 'happily ever after' no matter how this
ends."
     Gavin's expression flickered, intimating at something I had
never before seen. And thusly something I could not discern or
recognise. "And how does it plan to end?" he asked me.
     His tone was that of an inquistioner.
     A smile wormed its way onto my face. "Let me write my
storybook," I said to him. "Say nothing as I live my dreams inside
reality. And then when the last paragraph is written, we can both
sit down and look...and see which of us will be vindicated."
     Gavin watched me with a haunted look on his face, Gilliam
resting peacefully on his lap. He did nothing but watch me as I
winked at him and took my leave, closing his apartment door behind
myself.


     The skies outside my apartment window grew black and dark
earlier than the sun would have decreed. 10pm and the storm was
marching across the heavens above in a churning entourage of cloud
and rain. Spatters of water struck my windowpane. Went unnoticed as
I listened to the music. Let my fingers dance across the
keyboard...and then at last find rest.
     A few final commands ensured this would not be lost.
     I retrieved a Coke from the fridge as my mad tea party was
saved, raised the opened can to toast my d‚nouement. To the lovers,
the poets and the lunatics of the world.
     My eyes glanced back to the computer screen as everything was
saved. The ending inside the text had preceded the ending I was
about to walk into. I knew how this part of the world would end.
But beyond that, like every true story, 'the end' was merely the
beginning.
     And the beginning was:

          DO YOU LOVE ME?
          Those were the four words I awoke to.
          The four words which started it all....

     I didn't read any further. My hands reached for my phone and
called up an old friend. The only person who knew what had brought
me to this point, the only person who would be given the chance and
gift to see what happened afterwards.   
     "Gavin, do you still have the spare key to my apartment?" I
asked him when he answered the other side of the line.
     "Yes." He sounded awake; probably ready to head out to The
Abstract for his shift.
     "I've left a parting gift for you on my desk," I said to him.
Unable to stop the pride and fondness I held in being both his
friend and acolyte. "Thanks for everything."
     At that Gavin became very silent and very serious. I could
practically hear him lean forward in his chair. "What are you
talking about?"
     There was a knock at my door.
     I had been expecting it.
     I had been expecting her.
     Gavin's voice buzzed in my ear again. "Listen to me: where the
bloody hell are you going?" 
     "I don't know," I answered him. "Perhaps if I'm able to, I'll
let you know what it's like when I get there. Ja."
     I knew Gavin would protest. Swear. Do his damnedest to get me
to stay on and not do something he thought was stupid. That made me
realise the true depth of our friendship. And so I hung up on him
before he could say anything else; he would be here soon enough.
     But he was already too late.
     The phone receiver was put aside, left off the hook so Gavin
wouldn't be able to call back. The Coke was left on my desk, half-
consumed. I slowly rose from my swivel chair and appraised my
attire. At first I thought it might be best to dress in a suit like
a gentleman of noble stature. But that wasn't me. And that didn't
seem to be what she wanted of me.
     So I dressed as I wanted to. In blue jeans and a white dress
shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the bottom button left undone. My
stomach was doing somersaults inside my chest, my heart beating
erratically. To be thrilled and frightened in the same breath. It
had been a long time since I'd felt like this.
     I opened my front door.
     And found her standing there, nervous and excited all at once.
Emerald eyes looked at me, and I saw her smile warmly. How long she
had been waiting for me I did not know. I might never know. But I
was content to be with her now; the waiting was over.
     The computer was left on.
     The lights were turned off.
     My apartment door was closed and locked behind me.
     We left together, hand in hand, in quiet whispers of
affirmation.
     "Konban wa, Mako-chan."
     "Aishiteru."
     Tsuki no hikari wa ai no message....




                          Konde ashimai.

                        (this is the end)




     To Naoko-sama, who has given us all such a rich and vibrant
     universe to play within. May none of us grow so tired of
     this world of Sailormoon that we abandon and forget it
     entirely.

     To the ones who have been my friends, fans and closest
     companions as I walked the ASMR for 4 years: Amanda, 
     Sean, Skuld, Meara, Don, blue and Kotetsu.

     And above all, to Andrea Hui. One day I intend to return all
     the kindness you have shown me. Thank you for your letters,
     your support, your words of encouragement, and for giving me
     a place to share my stories with the rest of the SM
     community.





          I want but one epitaph when my time upon this 
          planet finds itself expired. No name of who I 
          was. No record of when I was. No grand speech
          or witty rhetoric to trivialise the life that
          was once one I called my own. I want but a
          simple epitaph.

          And it will say: here lies a man who sought
          out his dreams, and found them.

          Ja.


                    His lordship Chaos, signing off....
                    08-july-01