“If you had told me that all the while I was in Paris of the future. That same nineteenth century ‘fin d’siecle’ metropolis that was several hundred years ahead now a dystopian paradise an reigning queen of the cyber-caliphate then I would have never believed it. All that might have been offered to this fantastic proposition of the breach of space and time was that I must have been dreaming!”Harry looked up from the tiny screen his legs chilled at mid thigh from the atmosphere of the bewitching hour. He didn’t mind being int he dark by himself in a central viewing spot able to ascertain the dimness of light ranging from deep shadow to shadow. Much memory of the past hid there as if filed in some ethereal filing cabinet. What others might have deemed as phantoms he interpreted as a mix of previous times and experiences throw in a pile in disorder void of light. A sort of type of accumulation that eventually was ground down to a base element along the lines of dust. How many distant palaces and empires coulees he sweep off his bureau top with the swish of his palm? Yet sometimes, he wondered, did these mental constructions spontaneously reassemble themselves with the aid of some unlikely human consciousness? The visions that he had awakened from seemed to suggest a certain flight of fancy in terms of a cyclopean level of style and complexity inposed upon lanes and avenues that he felt were vaguely familiar.
He put down the glowing I-Phone for a moment to turn his head to the window and the organized series of dots that lit up the cotton like gauze that lay draped over all in the semi-darkness. His ears pricked up and his neck swiveled int he opposite direction at that he surmised was a delicate scratch at his door.Nothing more violate the steady click of a shadow obscured clock and the reigning rise and fall of wind and infrequent passing vehicles. He could still clearly see those intersections that ranged on diagonals massive combinations of vertical architecture of haphazard shapes that might have come from a younger child’s imagination. Stairwells leading to sidewalks and vice-versa. Canopies and galleries some private and others more massively public walkways that looked out upon different combinations of haphazard urban sprawls. The cleverness of the different disparate elements attracting the phantom residents that were inferred to make their homes and livelihoods here. One turn down a colonnade towards the less than distant lake caught his attention. An ensemble of three tall slinky-looking femme’s dressed alike in smart high fashion green velour dresses with matching caps walked by him oblivious to his presence. The clip clop of their heels upon the concrete interjecting Morse code between their conversation being held in what one might have supposed was Northern Italian. Harry felt confined to remain silent before the threesome as they wheeled passed and then down the stairs casually making their way to the terrace by the water. The phone was now asleep once again in the dark somewhere hovering in restless WiFi bliss in sleep mode upon the glass coffee table.
“What a strange place?“, he pondered, now back in his own undefined myopic dun. The refrigerator was now noisily cycling its own form of liquid oxygen somewhere out of sight. He had forgotten the scratching sound that had caught his attention a while back. “Were these the workmen that assembled this strange notion of plastic reality that he took for granted as being inflexibly sound? He could recall a strange impression derived from long hours watching the clock in high school that had suggested that he was in actuality existing in the midst of a movie set. One could look out of any open door and imagine a couple of stage managers leaning against the wall having a smoke keeping a watchful eye on the time till with their magic wands they would invoke something strange but reasonably familiar. New faces of extras a little further off practicing their order of appearance within the new set that Harry would take for granted after the bell rang announcing the passing period. Was this the mental fiction of boredom? Or was he becoming attuned to some vital secret of the universe that was playing itself out? If came to hs thoughts that if he could become observant enough he might be able to duck out of what seemed conventional reality and find out the true pattern of things? He leaned his head back closing his eyes in the syrupy dark. That fourteen-story Roman column themed porch plagued condo rising up as a major structural element or the top of a pie shaped wedge that formed the base of a residential architectural folly towered above him. What sort of disorganized fantastic mind could construct this soaring Alcazar?