Between Lines and Memories

Jonathan's memory isn't what it wasn't before it was as it is. The sparrows squawked and pecked at roofing of the silent mental foundations which were coming loose. He was walking through a world made of constantly changing variables, at times collapsing onto themselves, to create a tiny window of infinite wisdom through which the direct link to consciousness could be established, only to then be torn back apart into the surrounding world, piece by piece making less and less sense again.

He words sliced apart the mundanity of the process. Johnathan could feel it now.

he would mutter to himself:
'I know what is real, I know who I am, I remember what everything is'

And in turn the world would shift, the most simple series of tasks becoming legendary obstacles, just one more step into the infinite complexity. How much does that even matter. Will power was drained away with every thought.

Joshua felt it too.

Aware now of the fact that his mind was shared by another version of himself. Occupied by an intruding force which was in its all fundamental states, utterly useless. Just another self defense mechanism, against some greater danger. An allergic reaction to the host body. Its just doing its job, trying to protect the larger whole.

'It may be for the better' he thought. The packets of medication sitting on the bedside table, half a pack down already. What good did it do anyway.

'What good wouldnt it do?' her voice sliced at the inner lining of his ear behind the main nerve
'Come now, whats the difference between this, and who you were before?' the voice continued, like a jittered program error 'Why even bother with it all'

Johnathan steeled his mind. The telephone was ringing. The gramaphone played the last scenes of his last five minutes in reverse. Stuttering Johnathan lifted his head to his hand 'Hold it-  -together' were the last five minutes played forward as words.

The room stretched, constrained, the gravity turned left and all the writing on the wall followed suit.

Joshua sat back down. The meds. How long has it been?
Had he taken the morning dose? Was there a morning dose?
Were there any other meds to take that have completely evaded his sight?

Sobriety, in its worst, the most tragic kind of insanity.
Sitting among the boxes, ink running down the page.
Coffee spilt, milk off.
words. thoughts.
the sanatorium.
Tragedy and comedy.

Madness wandered out of the window from her mind, through her eye everything was right as it was meant to be.

In flux.

55 minutes past the third chapter

Joshua hillcolmn was never too young a man. Always aheaf if his time.
Even when he was born, his mother became his grandmother before her dues.
Even though. Joshua had tried his best to make time catch up with his life style.
'More tea?' Asked the aging christian cultist.
'No, thank you' drully replied Joshua.
It was a fine sunny day, and the christian was trying out the new sugar routine with tea instead of coffee. He edgdd closer to Joshua with an anticipating sneer
'More...' he drew out the word like a violin string on the brink of breaking '...Sugar?'

Reminissions

If there was ever a better time to give condolences to the far corners of broken thoughts it would be now. Well, at least it was then, as the moments dragged on, leanard watched them go by. Waving a small cup of coffee in a gentle rocking motion, with one eye half open. He brought the cup closer to its eventual demise.

95 angles of normal

Having consumed a rather large portion of breathable existance, johnathan sat back into his armchair. With a sigh, he reflected himself in the glass which was held up by his nemesis.

The glass, was rounded at the top and shortly timed at the mid part. The rest of it was spanning all the way down to the wooden floor of the intimidation room. 

Upon exhailing the non existence, Johnathan's reflection - curved and morphed back onto itself until it yet again became his whole self sitting in the chair across himself. He was quite fond of that particular technique. Having nobody to practice upon, other than the mirror in which the glass that he was holding was reflected Johnathan got quite good at the folding over himself in a most languished way.

Though, this time, it wasnt for no reason. Leanard was present. At least, in the back of Johnathans mind. This was all good practice for the next encounter. Every movement had to be perfect. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something out of place - Ants.

A thin line of ants, crawling over and across all obstacles that an unpolished piece of wood provided.
Next to the piece of wood, was another, and another, and so forth until they came to the wall.
The angle of attack was simple. The room elongated itself and then skewed into a depth of field where only the ants and the chair with Johnathans upraised eyebrows were sternly locked into an agitated state.

'Do you... Drink?' the ants seemed to ask. 

'Sometimes' Johnathan responded to the hypothetical question.

'Often?' 

'No, no, just sometimes'

The line of ants kept its pace. Steadily crawling onto the wall.

'--And You?' he asked the ants, as there was a clear lack of any communication that needed to be filled with at least something. 

Silence came as a reply. 

A curling voice of a few sprigles wrapped uncomfortably in mud spoke softly from behind him:

'They arent used to alcohol yet'

'Oh' Johnathan stuttered, 'right, of course'

Then, straightening up he released a whimsical tune of a question into the unexhailed sunbstance

'And do you, drink?'

'Always' came the reply

'Whats, err, your poison?' 

If nails were fingers on which fingers grew instead of nails, then that is how the touch of the substance that stroked Johnathans shoulders would feel like at this very moment.

'You know, its very disconcerting that you are able to do that'  Johnathan mumbled into the ether that he was drinking. 

'Yes, well. Perhaps, its time we got a few things straight around here, dont you think?' again came the reply in the most curling that it ever was. 

It is always worth a mention that this was the intimidation room. Johnathans intimidation room at that. And to feel uncomfortable in your place of work is just not right. Its something that Johnathan was becoming uncomfortably aware of.

Chapter 18

It was fifty moments past any reasonable time, but anybody who preferred being precise rather than obtuse, would say that it was precisely not past half two. Leanard glanced at the clock: It lied. So he asked the next passing day of the week. 'Half past one' replied a well groomed stranger with a badge above his left waistcoat button "Monday"  the badge announced proudly.
Leanard was about to ask the badge whether it meant that 'Monday' was the name of the man or did it just mean that the current day of passing was Monday.
'Uh, excuse me' he began, but the man was already busily hurrying along to his destination.
Leanard composed himself.
Today, was Monday  It was one 30 in the afternoon, and everything seemed rather acceptable. He reconsidered. The sky was upside down, but that's almost natural in autumn.
Next step required a more calculated approach: Where was he.
Burrowing his eyebrow into his nose, Leanard began the hard road to find out what actually has been happening around him for the good part of a week. Reasoned thought had a hard time recognising itself within the confines of a wine induced haze. after a few more reasoned calculations he realised that the sky was not upside down and it wasn't autumn.
A cup of coffee sat innocently on the table. Next to it was a few pills and a letter.
Leanard considered his position.
Things were beginning to painfully fall into place.
He was in his apartment.
The letter was addressed to him.
And the pills may just be the anti-psychotics he kept just in case of an emergent episode.
He blinked a couple of times to be sure that reality was not going to melt away again.
After drinking down the cold black coffee, Leanard took a small tour of his somewhat large apartment.
Empty wine bottles littered the whole place. His walls were still the colours of wallpaper and paper full of notes still whisked around in the breeze from the open window.
Monday.
It was Monday.
2 thirty.
He was sane.
Just as that last thought crossed his mind, Leanard became acutely aware of the armchair bolted to the ceiling.
More coffee.
Not only was the armchair bolted to the ceiling, but half the things in his apartment were too. And everything else was upside down. Creating a very convincing illusion that he was everything but sane.
'How much is the difference between too much, and not enough?' - a female voice smooth with the curves of trigonometry echoed through Leanards head.
He recognised the voice at once, although never having heard it before.
'If I told you,  it wouldn't make any difference anyway' the voice continued 'you didn't think everything was all normal again' the voice slowed down to accentuate the last part.
Leanard looked around. Nothing, nowhere 'All in your head' the voice garbled 'although it is always nice to hang around here' the voice materialised above Leanard; First the red heels then the over leg in a fashion which would make the best mahjong player question pattern play.
She wore a stunning car salesman smile, a mascara the colour of velvet and a dress of flamingos on fire. The flamingos were actually patterned on with fire and looked like a pink after image of scorched retinas.
'you shouldn't forget to take your medication like that. Terrible things have happened to those who ignore the doctors orders you know'
Leanard glowered at the woman sitting upside down in an armchair above his coffee table.
'Excuse me, how exactly is it that you are up there?'
The woman's smile wavered.
'If you have to know-' she began to fiddle with the armchair 'it is you who is the wrong way round'
Leanard felt a strange shift of reality. Nothing  changed but walking and existing suddenly became more uncomfortable, almost felt like he was on a merry go round, moving backwards through water but upside down. It was at that point where he could've sworn that the coffee drags on the bottom f his cup began to float up. As he watched, the rest of the coffee followed; up, up and into the out-held cup above him.
'its all about perception you see'
Madness smiled again and took a sip of her newly poured coffee.
'Sanity is in the eye of the beholder' she took another sip before frowning and picking out an eyelash from her right eye.
Johnathan studied this entire situation with a grain of pepper. Something was definitely not right. This was not his apartment, the up was not down and it certainly wasn't Monday.
He began considering all the other problems currently facing the window outside.
It was daytime, of that he could be certain. There was a letter on the table above him, addressed to Joshua...
'Joshua... ' why did the name sound so familiar.
Somewhere outside, the strained sound of the Montreal express echoed the streets.
Leanard snapped out of his carriage of thought and retried to understand why he was strapped into an armchair above his coffee table.
Although this was the perfect location to read an upside letter, clearly written to himself.

"Dear Joshua" it read "you may be aware that reality has taken a wrong turn at the quarter of the century, indeed the whole room may have been turned on its head. While it is difficult to conceive why. It should not bother you too much. At the imminent if reading this letter. What you are experiencing at this exact moment can be described with a few words. If I was better at writing, I would have written a book. Alas, as fate has it, there is never enough time to denote for such pursuits. 
I digress.
In order to avoid a catastrophic paradox  I must keep the details of this letter short - thought Leanard. Indeed in order to return the entire universe to its original position I must not reveal any important events or characters. Leanard was getting impatient in his armchair he fidgeted a little in the constraints as he read the letter out loud. If I must point out that a paradox has already been created you would most certainly be correct. And it is by this exact realisation can we beat her at her own game. Listen to me said Leanard. The entirety of this world rests on the only outcome this letter can have. Joshua considered the entire passage with mild puzzlement. Isn't it a paradox to write about writing about a paradox in first person to yourself? the answer is yes. Leanard was confused. So was Joshua. 
The last paragraph of the letter was dedicated in  extreme detail, about how the whole thing fitted together. Leanard thought about this and started to become outraged about the way the letter didn't actually describe anything and merely hinted a the terribly important information that it could not describe in detail. While Leanard was reading the letter, he didn't notice the single piece of paper flung out of the open window caught in a breeze. That piece contained the single most important piece of information to be found in this entire script  It read: 'She must be stopped, Johnathan is the only one who can do it' it had a whole bunch of instructions on it, but they were lost, until Joshua was to find them again in the forgotten libraries of Montreal  With that, the letter concluded itself, read Leanard.' 
 Read Leanard 'What a peculiar piece of information' I wonder who it was written by' he thought before being interrupted by a tremendous crash as the Montreal express smashed through the living room and with a bellow released clouds of steam through the apartment.

*   *   *  

Chapter 17

It was like a staircase full of elevators, rising and falling at the beat of evaporated water droplets falling upwards onto the glass ceiling. The room was full of antiquinated music equipment and brass gongols (a mix between a gong and a bell) in shapes varying from dark gold to that of a perfume agitated to the point of near nonexistence. A glass fluit in shape of a cat scurried across the black and white chequered marbled floor. The fluit made a fluid turn behind the nearest tambourine, disappearing from sight.

Every instrument in the room glowed with electricity not unlike of that which one sees before an orchestra is about to start playing. Rays of morpheolite sparks bounced off the antiquated music hall.

Outside, it was a cold evening;

The snow still sat perfectly still. It sat and waited for the first crunch of snow flakes as they underwent a transition to a nonconformitably overly effortless mass of congladulated liquid.

Minutes passed days, days passed the hours, and the years stood nigh motionless in a gaze of admirance thrown onto to the event.

At exactly one minute past midnight, the electric currents flowing and skipping over the instruments, began to hum, barely heard at first, but then gradually growing louder, to the point where sound began to turn to light. Within seconds the room was aglow, on fire and with great fires, matching the shine of the stars themselves.

All went silent. A few moments, about as long as these words in diameter, became a pause. It lasted for a few more moments. Repeated itself once more, and began to speak:

Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight for your subritten listening pleasure, the theater Mon Fantastique presents:

Joy to the world – Handel


It began softly, with a string of strings beaten against trombones, as they smashed out into drums and the revolving oxamaphones, thousands of trumpets broke out in revolutionised chorus of angelic voices. The backup singing was provided by flutes and deglassified cellos, the voices seemed to come from the thin air around the strings of the millions of violins, all playing out of tune with tune. As the symphony roared up and down in every scale possible, the drumrolls were now heard through the symbols of pianos inscripted along the keys of those same said pianos.

As a finishing touch on the finish, three marvelously dressed in colours of purple and red trombones, sounded a lasting roar to allow the next section of the orchestration to begin.

Jupiter – Holst

Rising as if from the depths of Sunday, the everquickening pace of tomorrow made its way across to the land of sound. A sound which released needles and tiny bells from the sharp notes of the violins, backed by great epics of the cellos, winding up a great stomping threefold conversation between the instruments, as they echoed in brass and oak barrels!
The barrel began to sound softer again, with a single composed piece of a musical instrument sounded in through between the cracks.
It sounded brave and beautiful, amids of all the flowers thrown around the stage, of the orchestra, now with a backing of might and glory, the instrument rose to its feet and coiled into a silver bird with a heart of red glass. All of a sudden the glass heart smashed outwards and out of it flew a most brightly coloured firebird, in shades of ultramarine and orange. Landing down to the marbled floor, it turned back into another instrument, leaving the silver statue where it was.
The instrument we speak of now, made the sounds of great winds and firestorms, fueled by the strongest of spirits, of dreams and extrolutions! Rising and releasing a great flash of light, finishing the piece.

Entertainer – Joplin

As the flash cleared itself, an old man was sitting behind the piano on the grand stage.
The man was old, but still retained his youthful features: Such as his single constantly raised eye brow, which sat over the left eye. His smile was that of a confused walrus, which simply wasn't sure what it was doing halfway across china in an opium den. The man opened up his notebook and placed it directly across the major part of the minor piano (which sat in the major piano of course).

He then proceeded to raise his eyebrow up and down. After the fifneath fall of the eyebrow, the piano made a noise of a note being struck by a tiny hammer. It waited, and as if the piano waited all this time for that signal, burst into calculated strokes on the wiring inside the walls of the theater.

It played a short burstle of tones and noted, dropping and rising as soon as they appeared, in a formulated degree of speaking, one could describe the piano to be playing a single melody repeated seven times, with an occasional break to throw the listener off the melody, yet to continue playing the same tune again, and again to the next signifying part which repeated only four times, and abruptly stopped.

The man got up to his feet, raised his eyebrow one last time and dissapeared, replaced by silence.
Fifty nine British cossacks burst into the silence without a moments notice and began to juggle knives and any other objects they could pull from their furry hats!

Sabre Dance – Khachanaturian

Managed to croak out moment, and was instantly replaced by the madmen trio in a madman trio of a trio of madmen dressed in furry hats and shiny bright red coats lappeled with fire. There was almost no pause between the full stop and the first word of this sentence; the time that it took to explain that is how fast the cossacks were running circles around the orchestra if one was to count the middle man. The music was pouring out from every single furtopped hat, it was abrupt and fast, almost as fast as the top speed of an elephant dancing around a jungle campfire. This time, the elephant was actually in the same room as these events, to be more precise it was on the grand stage stomping to a rhythm of a drum dropped down some short stairs a long way down the line.
The cossacks trio of madmen trio bounced around in circles while throwing up various instruments of apple pealing and bottle making. From some of them there were flying sparkler wasps, which illuminated the stage in their colourful effects.

To an untrained eye, there was nothing on the stage but the ravings of a preacher to the ravens.
Yet to a trained eye, the whole hall of carpeted walls and glass ceilings was a mere distraction from the real things existing right there before the very eye of the untrained viewer.

Toccata and Fugue in D minor – Bach

Clearly pronounced the moment, as it stumbled off to the pipe organ. Without a moment to spare, the dark noted smeared in soot smashed against the clean carpets of the walls. Absorbing sound and at the same time brushing some of the soot off the notes, the music was felt.

Harsh, undertoned with undertones of deepseated undertone of all undertones of darkness, sat the moment. Releasing notes of equally harsh harshness from the pipe organ, the moment began to brood. Watching the notes through the eyes of the mirror poised across the furthermost wall of the most recent developments. The moment played. It played with the minds and hearts of rapidly rising and chaotic notes. Smashing them across the hall, into the carpets and walls. As for higher notes it would occasionally release a stream of notes into the glass ceiling, to let it ring out across to the audience.

The moment brooded, and began to let a wail go through the underscore of the crushing waves of music. With a few last touches on the keys, it released the instrument, in a solidly fainting echo.




A pause stretched.. .. ..never paused, just stretched. Then it stopped.

A flurry of colours and checkered marble floor tiles flew up and met with the glass ceiling which was falling downwards with the force of water droplets pushing it up.

The collision sounded across the hall, a great imploding sound, of forty five directionless tubes wrapping around a furry pink and green bottle of trees.

The Orchestration came to an end, a marvel of sound and crushing beauty.
Released, the warm air rushed out to meet its counterpart, while the building continued collapsing onto itself, the baroque statues mixed with the solid forms of art deco. The witty quotes of Oscar Wilde and Windsor Churchill having witty quotes about witty quotes, bounced around the last remaining fabrics of realism, faded, and became snow.

The Years released the building from sight and time continued on as it was before they slowed to a gaze.

It was one o three Am, in the morning.

Nobody was around to see the events, nor would they have believed their ears and eyes when they saw it. The moment, packed up, placed its belongings into a vintage suitcase. Closed its brass clips, and left into the quiet fresh Christmas night, while smoking a black cigarillo from a holder.

Leanard stood on the empty spot where only minutes ago, a most beautiful experience sounded.
He smiled, and wished himself only imaginary.
Joshua woke up.

On the table was yet another suicide/kidnapping/deathnote from Johnathan.
Joshua thought to himself about all those strange moments when he simply not remember whether he was asleep or his alter ego was.

Memento for a Bubble Opera

Leanard sat infront of the soap opera, the entire orchestration released oddifying and half centric messages. While Leanard always loved a good soap opera, this one was gradually fading into the bubble bath, and that was not merely inexcusable, it was also rude for the viewers sake.

Violins churned out globbles of larvical spherionetic sound which would occasionally change into silence and singing birds (cleverly disguised as opera singers)

Leanard thought about the entire ordeal and realized that there was nothing wrong with the situation for once.

Chapter 10: The descent into madness

"Some people, compair living to a fifth of a matress; Its never big enough or long enough. Others, compair it to the comparison between a dinosaur toe and a lion's hair.
Joshua was one of those which could not be bothered even thinking about the huge comparisons and the price rise which they included. It was a busy world after all, who could allow themselves all this nonsense.

Joshua span the fork fifty five angles to the right of his left toe. Which was a little swollen from the last thursdays toe battles in the caffeteria. The fork kept spinning around its own axis, and then around the axis of the toe itself, not shortly after, the toe followed suit and before Joshua could recite the fiftieth verse from the good book of the evil names (which was hidden upon the bookshelf of the great mage hoodini) he was also spinning around the axis of the fork, which was now severely entangled in his toe.

This may be a good time to mention that there is nothing more worth mentioning than the mentioning of the above statement.

'Circulosis they call it.'
Johnathan span around. Madness, dressed in her usual blander than nothing anyone has ever seen coat was standing between the arched pathways of the brain.
'what do you mean.. Circulosis?' he asked her, while trying to not sound too obtuse.
'Well look at him, spinning around like the bonfire of paris!'

This maybe a good time to note that G minor, was not included in the soundtrack to Johnathan's history lessons (((Lessons he never actually recieved) merely tried taking the credit for Joshuas extended studies of Parisian nightlife) which he only learned about form foreign magazines)

'Paris!' Joshua exclaimed.
'Yes.. What about it?' Said his boss, who was kindly waiting for Joshua to stop spinning and jumping on the spot from the fork which had somehow embedded itself into his foot.
'Just.. Paris.. and nothing else' Joshua wasn't actually sure why he spat the half chewed potato/carrot (cooked slowly under a severe surveillance of a crooked nosed chef) into his bosses face under the exclamation of 'Paris'

'Have you ever thought of a jobchange?' said madness to Johnathan
'A jobchange?? to what??'

'A professional winethrower??' Joshua was enraged. How dare some snobby nitworker dare him to change this beloved job as a professional wine thrower.. ..wait a minute.. how did he know how to throw wine so well anyway? and since when did he work as a wine thrower anyway?

'Stupid question, i know, but when someone decides to rule the world, how does he intend to do it?'
Madness was getting  brighter by the second of the hour (which fitted into its own little compartment on the ship labelled Dandeline Shores. the captain of which was none other than the man who lives across the road from that place where the sun never stops shining and the people always march up and down the concrete stairs in pairs of three or more)
Johnathan wasn't liking all the questions. Something wasn't right..

'No, No No! Its left! look!' Joshua grabbed the map from a specific passerby, one that was holding out a map like a lost tourist in the only place which did not have  any tourism or attractions for the people of their kind.
'Look. Turn left, then left, then, turn left, Then. Turn Left.. and finally..'

'That's what I meant by Circulosis. A terrible case actually' Madness shook her red hair and smiled like a crocodile before having a meeting with a human, suspended on a fishing line from a bungee tower.

Joshua unlike his counterpart, didn't notice anything odd about this actual situation and continued rolling stones made of tiny strands of hair from his arms, down the unforeseen events of the human eye. Although in his deep unnerved endings he felt a chill.
His counterpart also known as Johnathan, flustered, because for once in his single moment of all sub-mentioned existance he realised something of grave importance..

'I think there has been a terrible mistake' Joshua said as he looked at the map.
The map was upside down.
So was everything else. Not just that, but everything was not quite affected by gravity as it should have been.
And by that, Johnathan didn't just mean that the Montreal Express had crashed. But the rails which it was running on, had warped and twisted so far beyond recognition that not even nine-tenth of fifty, became a rotating orange, an orange upon which villages and societies sprawled and expanded, each with their own specific craftsmanship, each living a philosophy so vastly different to any that anybody knew, that both, Johnathan and Johnathan, could not have even come close to perceiving the great theories and ideas of those worlds. So beyond in their own right that they were, that in realizing what they were,  they wrote themselves out of existence.

Joshua had a headache"  - Leanard thought to himself.

How can it be that the idea of the idea can grow so vastly unimportant that even the slightest notch on the bump of its mediocre appearance could go unnoticed in our modern day.

Leanard sighed and kept walking back home from a long day at work.
                                                                              

Prologue to Interval 11 of intermission 4

The droplets of condensation sat harmlessly on the glass of the window overlooking a small town, in which the said glass resided. Occasionally the droplets would quiver from the oily skin which the nicotine smoke gave them. The Nicotine and its partner - tar, were very much filling up the small apartment room, overlooking the window which was in turn over looking the town.
Leanard Joshua Johnathan was planning his demise. Many days he had spent on this exact spot, swirling a glass of wine in the small goblet shaped goblet made of thin glass, somewhat resembling a wine cup, which could have been said that it resembled a glass. Alas, say so, it could not, and so it continued resembling a cup in shape of a goblet.
Every now and then, when the cup neared its fullest, Johnathan would empty its contents onto the passing men, and occasionally women, who were happily stalking the streets, under the forty ninth level of the building.
Joshua Leanard was never awake during these fleeting moments of passing time, and perhaps it was all for the best.
But it wasn't.
Indeed it was perhaps for the very worst.
But it still wasn't.
In all fading fact, it was for a very neutral.
The consequences of these episodes were so minute that even minuteness had left to attend better business elsewhere.Nevertheless, and the less was never. Johnathan carried on plotting against the great oppressor of crushed dreams and undying thoughts.
Having to dedicate most of his energy on staying in control  of the vessel body, Johnathan had only some time to think, the rest of his time was currently flying down and dispersing slightly in a manifestation of sweet red Lambrusco, which within minutes of seconds, it would hit a very calculated position.
"Damnit" Johnathan mouthed.
The wine splashed onto a patch of pavement, missing a white dress of a bachelorette, who was coming uptown from a very lousy party, which she was never invited to anyway.

Meanwhile, Leanard stumbled through his own intestinal passages of the submind.
"Dreams" he said bitterly. "that's the reason why I never get any sleep at night"

But we all know that the reason for his insomnia was in fact the same reason why he couldn't sleep at night:
Cheese..
Was the very fine and genius idea Johnathan had instilled into Leanard' mind. This was of course after Johnathan had pleaded innocence to an entire range of various mutinies against the mind itself. But hard boiled wit was no match for a sleepy brain, which had to process a billion of these thoughts every year. And a year was of course a long time when one is trapped in the grey goo lurking just beyond the stream of conscious thought, so the decision to eat nine grams of cheese before bed, was overthrown by the thought of eating 73 times that original amount.

So there he stood. Smug, at the fact that he could smoke up the entire appartment and repeatedly refill his goblet of wine just to empty it on the nearest passerby.
If only he knew that this was the beginning of leanards carrer as a professional wine thrower.
If he did know, then he made no show of it, so for now, let us make an ass of you and me by believing that he didnt.
He probobly did.
Not like we'll ever find out about it.     

Interval 12 of intermission 4

Cats.. Cats.. The word repeated itself over and over, spinning freely inside  a small marble implanted directly between Leanards toe – Johnathan was overjoyed, finally, Leonard stepped on the marble which had been waiting right there, on the carpet woven from cat hair. In-fact, Johnathan was the one who put the marble there, in the first place. Leonard on the other hand, had many a marble glued to his fingertips so another marble between the toe, didn’t quite bother him as much as the question why he had marbles glued to his fingers anyway. Johnathan, never really did ever figure out the fact that that wasn’t his own making, but he thought so anyway. With so many evil deeds, some would have to slip your mind pattern wouldn’t they? 

 

Chapter 8000-7992

Madness took the chair to the furthest corner of the closest wall of that same said corner. She wore a red dress, with intricate patterns of green, in-fact the red was so patterned over by the intricacy that it may as well be called a green dress with some red patterns. The dress itself was made of extremely thin strings woven together to make something that looks like an evening dinner jacket, with a subtle hint of the eye, the jacket could turn either green or red, it all depended on the sanity of the onlooker. In this case, the tuxedo that madness was wearing was a bright yellow with pink chequers. Of course from this observation, the onlooker of the onlooker could easily tell the reader that the Montreal express has just derailed due to some maniac tying a young lady to the tracks. The maniac as the onlooker has gathered, was Johnathan who has just successfully derailed a train formerly called the ‘train of thought’, but only in the last few minutes of its demise, it was renamed to the ‘Montreal express’. Johnathan took the second chair to the left of the right, from where madness got hers. Neither of them said anything for quite a steady of passing of time, yet when a catastrophic situation occurs, it is a well known fact that time as one perceives it, slows down. As the Montreal Express began its second revolution around itself in mid air, Johnathan started to see a problem in this plan. Madness was still sitting in her leather-bound mahogany chair, only this time she was looking rather bemused. Finally she asked – So, Johnathan, This whole derailing thing that you had so well planned out, it wouldn’t be all for me, would it now?

Johnathan steadied himself against the rising anti-gravitational tendencies of the flying mandarin and replied with a tone of voice, which said of course I planned for this to happen. “Madness my dear, of course all this is for you, now look, all that stops us from ruling this pathetic brain is the fact that the owner is too stupid to even acknowledge me- I mean, Us, As real beings.”

Johnathan paused for effect while a fruit bowl made a very interesting manoeuvre through the air, by reverse pedalling with an apple and a half filled cup of chocolate juice, while keeping tune with a famous classical piece which is usually only played during slow motion movie moments. “You see” he continued “we simply need to bring him into direct contact with us! Make him afraid, make him believe in us!”
Madness, while twirling her scarlet hair around a finger, lifted an eyebrow and replied – “And when you take over his body? What then?”
Johnathan was taken aback by the gravity as his chair slid onto the roof of the train cabin. “Then!” he said “ Then I will rule his body! Then I’ll rule his miserable life! Then, Ill rule his miserable world!”

“So negative” Madness cast a red eye outside the window and continued, “so you want me to help him take you seriously is that it?”

Outside Johnathan was laughing madly at the derailment in progress and for a moment, in his multiglass eyepiece he caught the red eye casually glancing past him.

Johnathan lit up his cigar and replied.

Madness smirked and disappeared with the rest of the train. Leaving Johnathan and Johnathan outside. Before them, the tied up woman was squirming on the tracks. “Should we release her now?” one said to the other. “Yeah, she’d get out anyway, besides, she’s seen enough now”

With that, Sanity was yet again free to roam the green fields of France with her blue vein cheese and caramelised onion dip. Yet, Deep inside, corruption had begun.

Chapter 7

 The Siamese cat’s interpretation of a three dimensional cube floating briskly on a string made of multifunctional equations didn’t even come close to the warped mind of the man currently pulling levers and apples out of thin air, the man whom this mere mortal page speaks of is indeed one who he does not say he is.

Sitting in his leather chair, he contemplated the demise of his newfound hobby.

“I give up” – he thought “no more of this madness”

Throwing down another one of the apples he walked over to the only window which wasn’t in the room. There wasn’t much in the room really. A small idea ran up to him, demanding his purpose, and it was briskly answered with a sidekick to the respective thinking area of its shapeless body.

Johnathan was not happy.

The last few encounters with the willywitted man he was made to hate, have all ended badly. So badly in fact, that he didn’t even know where to begin describing them.

Luckily, and as luck would have it, he wasn’t alone. Somewhere in the depths of the Joshua’s mind lived a hermit – One that had planed the demise of Joshua for a long time. Of course it never quite worked out as planned. The foolhardy and the semihardy were never as good as they said they were, which was the excuse that this particular hermit used. And now he was standing before a window outside of the room he was sitting in, pulling levers and apples out of thin air.

The resulting thoughts of the original thought were smashed together into a clump of revolving stripes pinned to a loose fitted suit. The occupying body of the said suit was a cleanshaven and one may even say bold chinned man with striking brown eyes and semihaired facial features. Upon the crooked glare of his eyes sat a pair of monocles, which themselves, in their self-righteous glare held up their own pair of monocles. Of course the whole situation of this gravity made the last pair of monocles request some better frames which would go as far as calling themselves spectacle frames, which in their fake brassy way of gold, would loop around the ears of the so described face. He rims of the spectacles were so proud of themselves that their vanity permitted a growth of a thin moustache which they decided should sit just above the lips of the aforementioned man. Who while being thought into existence had been glaring intensely into the weary brains of its creators. Both of whom shared the same body, brain and clothes. One may even say they were the same person sharing a mind of another who was currently on his way to yet another tea break.

Leanard had no idea about what was happening deep inside his most trusted hidden rooms of the subconscious mind. Utterly oblivious, of the nightmarish plotting currently being done just a few mili-inches of thoughtspace away;

Johnathan and Johnathan stood infront of his creation, the monster was almost complete, the suit tightened, and for a finishing touch, a grey double-ended top hat was added on a jaunty angle.

“Johnathan, I name you Johnathan” – they said to each other.

If only Joshua knew of the terrible evil which was about to be unleashed like a tidal wave of puppies unto a grassy field full of landmines. Luckily for the puppies, he did not.

Intermission 1¹

Not only did the five fourths of ninetyfour crashed into the idealogical musing of a man, but did it also cover a whole range of musical notes.