Yesterday, near dawn, at 4: 38 a.m., when the sky was gray and the curtains drawn, when the stars spelled out a misterious name, I took out a notebook and observed the upper wall. What there I saw shattered my eyes, froze my bones, edged neurons towards suicide, for a one-eyed tentacle man sat upon a marble throne.
He stared at me with a lonely amber eye, orange like the morning sky, like the glint of early dawn which reflected on his concrete crown. He stared intensely, with drawn cheeks, tightened jaw and the frame of that fathomed frown that moves the lips with a whisper of silence, the uttering of audible solitude. Seven ivory tentacles sprouted from his enlongated torso and gracefully wove around the air surrounding his polyester body; quite distinct was the aluminum fist protruding from the center of his naked chest, grasping for tangible space. His feet were also bare, and there, on his pinky toe, stood perched a black crow, a bright synthetic light eminating from the tip of his charcoal beak.
Then, the one-eyed tentacle man procured seven steel alloy swords and sparred with the image of light. And then the night, dark and starred, splashed upon my bedroom wall. Upon the one-eyed tentacle man disarming his abstract contrincant, the swords imploded, leaving the trace of nuclear radiation and a slight purple hue. Then with a wave of the third tentacle, the man began to fade. As he vanished into the concrete, the one-eyed tentacle man suffered a seizure, and his seven tentacles wildly danced in unchoreographed frenzy until the seizure seized, or at least subsided.
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