affame_le_geant_press_play fyn gula cayris pushed his head back into the cushiony softness of the supple leather seat, its color a brick red, the shade of dried blood. his jaw pain was less, but now his head ached. the smoke from poj's shabbie was inticing and when poj passed it to him, he was tempted to partake as he usually did, but the throbbing in his brain he knew would only grow worse, and nothing sucks more to be "shabbied" with a fucking headache. and so he permitted poj to luxuriate in a solo shabaz session. the smoke curled lazily within the confines of the car, hanging like heavy fog over the white mountains of kemulya, like the fog of doubt clouding cayris's perception of the future. when he swallowed it was bitterness, the acceptance of a failure that began all the way back when saumboo first appeared in kemulya, a sudanese refugee working for king mal, having lost his kenneth cole black -framed glasses. it was frau werzenwozen who outwitted cayris in a game of cat and mouse, tricking him along the bianca atrada as her spegnere(tiger in a crow costume)-pulled cart made the journey from boffden-ruled rynomari to where puppertwinkle the chihuahua/jiminy cricket/conscience welcomed the nappy-headed man going blind to his parallel universe. it was the beginning and cayris had read all about it in the book of kemulya, had memorized the prophecy and had a well orchestrated plan to stop it as a germinating seed. yet, he missed. next, he had the chance to enter the scene at the fall of birds, but it was proina who stopped him at the battle of the endless rains. feignez the woodpecker entered. he tried again and failed. until, the mandrill he considered surrendering. she was a spark of hope. she could change destiny. and everything was going according to plan until twinkletoes intervened...... when poj smoked the shabbie down, he snuffed it out with the calloused index and thumb of his left hand and then placed it reverently inside a small glass jar that once held a fragrant balm used for massage. there were several "picoshabs" inside, awaiting the exhaustion of his current store of shabaz, when one final participation existed, marking the age of inspiration, which would be scietifically chronicled in his journal with lucid observations and finely-detailed illustrations. "why don't you put some music on?" cayris suggested. he sat fully reclined on the sofa-seat, his head nearly swallowed by the cushion. it was an intention of poj, that is, to fire up some tuneage, the next step along his mystical agenda, for the shabaz was a calvary, hooves thundering to a relegated rescue along his bloodstream, horses racing to bring him much-needed clarity. his best friend and leader was drowning in self-delusion, sinking in a quagmire of pyrrhonism. music was the angel who removed her wings, hung them on a tree, and bent down to lift the downcast face. "good call," poj said, and he opened the pinewood cupboard behind him where the cds and stereo were kept. he already knew what he wanted to hear, remembering a concert he had been to when he had crossed the bridge into the world of one sun and one moon: coldplay at duquense university in pittsburgh, pennsylvania. there was an opening band called, "the music," a british quartet, still in their teens-hence, bored enough to come up with something great; their pyschedelic, guitar-loaded, self-titled debut lives up to all the fuss bestowed upon them by the u.k. press. yes, they do sound like led zeppelin, stone roses, and jane's addiction. poj set the cd in place and pressed play. 030313 what's it to you? who go blather from