Symphoni Drakonis Inferni

... On the right angle of the large room the prefigured shape of a man lifts his purple-ish silhouette, that projects a thin and long shadow on a pink wall of this peculiar alcove, which seems to dance to the rhytmical pirouettes of an orchestra of obese maestros all dressed in solferino and creme.

Waiters dressed in black and white à l'allemande pass by with the heads of distinguished rhapsodists pompously served on silver platters: Anatole France, Jorge Asís, Camoens, Marco Denevi, Verlaine, Unamuno, H.G. Wells, Cervantes, Flaubert, Victor Hugo, Borges or Alexandre Dumas (père) shine under the light adorned with sliced radishes and fresh lettuce.

The perfumed maîtres attend the invitees dispatching new heads to every table, accompanied by small bowls with leche agria through the -somehow- rhomboidal shape of the place, which is presided by unused throne settled on high, and behind it, an elevated door or entryway, which would serve as an exit, for those who could reach it, which is extremely difficult, due to the height of said portal, constructed from rosewood.

The floor or ground on which I tread is similar to the pavement of certain lanes of old Europe, as it is seen at the purple-esque illumination of the chandeliers, that hurts the uneven muescas of the surface, as if the very Luzbel would be traveling in its light.

The reasons why or how I've arrived to this terminal pavilion fill my mind as one and only question:

How?



The portended image of man stretches an arm holding a long cane of gold with his left hand and opens the inaccessible and elevated door by means of a dry and brusque movement:

The hall is replete with brown light, while my eyes can see a presence entering through the high door, sort of volant aristocrat or mammal, whose traits are not well-defined in the powerful bronze of the light. The personage seems to be disgusted by his own luminescence, as if he would feel some kind of astraphobia or repugnance to light: his eyes stay closed.

His eyes

His closed eyes strongly remind me of papel glacé... observing him floating, entering through the vestibule toward the rhomboidal hall in which I stand, I can note the opening of his mouth in detail.
There's something strange in the arcades of that mouth, and in his osseous structure, something canine, in spite of his erect, biped posture:

The floating presence or mammal lands softly on the pavement of the pink and large alcove with his eyes closed.
When his black shoes touch the floor, a sound is heard, like the sound of a switch that's turned from off to on... this noise echoes through the irregular walls, tables, and passes rampant and sibilant around the band that is playing a tarantella:

the unnamed guest opens his eyes, the musicians suddenly stop their progressions, there is a profound paleness in their faces.
The last note emitted by the contrabass rebounds on the ceiling, making the auriferous chandeliers move with an almost imperceptible tremor: The light suddenly turns from orange-red to categorical and brutal white.

His eyes are enormous, round, lilac; impregnated with a disquieting brilliance full of amour, the sharpness of the image is so nitid that it hurts, almost offending the eye.

Everybody's petrified watching those eyes, the silence is overwhelming.

The guest doesn't look... he doesn't see anybody, his globous eyes are absorbed in his self observation, standing still in a ruminative fixation about his own stare: On the surface of his protruding eyeballs an aqueous humor shines.

The atmosphere of the hall is thick, unnerving.

I observe this grotesque and alarming zarzuela as if I was inebriated, out of my own body:

Did I dream many times I was in ..?
The reasons why or how I've arrived to this terminal pavilion fill my mind as one and... 

Brusquely, the guest rises an arm as he starts turning his neck gradually like a demonurgist: All of a sudden, his eyes were fixed on my eyes, I smiled arrogant, terrified.

In the centre of his eyeballs replete with love there was a fire, infinitesimal, cold, mathematical.

His orange and wrinkled face of manwoman was consumed by the free radicals and all the mundane vices,while his brassy eyebrows seemed to grow from the commissure of his lachrymal glands.

Lost, as I start envisioning my own mouth out of my face, I shout:

"¡Maldito! ¡Dónde estoy!
¡Maldito, maldita bestia!"


His pupils dilated brusquely when a suggestive stare was redirected at my mouth from those eyeballs, now with more love in them than before, while an extremely subtle smile seemed to appear in that caseous face, or at least that is what I thought I saw.

Ignoring me, the presence stationarily walks toward his throne without moving his feet:
I see the mammal heavily sitting like the dinosauria before laying its eggs, the segment is double: Watching from behind my eyes I see him becoming them, becoming myself, becoming everybody, in an incomprehensible oneness of amorousness, such a god who contains every creature in himself, like inquilines of his inenarrable, horrendous love.

As a sequence observed through a plasma screen, I can see this ill and sardonic theater under the light that shifts from white to cobalt on my own face, while the orchestra begins to sound with morose compasses, distant... distant...