“Fetes”

A rain came from fetid sky, pouring and grinding head every corner. Which was strange, because Debussy it was not awake. He wasn't even part of the dream, but some distantly attached to something that was deeper than sleep. And oh, what sleep it was.

You might think that there is no happenstance to this, missed the prophetic drumming, and distillate trills that did not have quite the rhythm. But this was a terrain that he was used to. Though it was shocking and violent on the surface, underneath that fine water, there was a kind of bliss. And for Debussy that was not light for his card for eyes. His brain marched in unison, in measures that strained the boundaries of a rhythm that was not quite 4/4.

It was not enough that he could taste things that he could see, because, that was normal in this place. The welling up of rambunctious infinitude of the thrumming of the cords, meant that he would write this down when he found tastes to go with sounds, and sights to go with smells, and for all the world it would seem like he had music in his ears. The bleeding sound meant that sounds, and sounds, and mirrored tastes, would mix together. He just wrote them as in the way they reflected off the hallways of his mind. There was no other way to do it, at least as far as he knew.

The municipalities that were trapped in his mind were not populated, this was not something that many people shared. It was just for a few select individuals to recognize that genius would soon walk among them, even the ones who arched bewildered would give him a prize, and send him on his way. They muttered to themselves what did he do which made him manifique, while they were stuck in a hyperpituitarism.

It wreaked of malposition, that God would select someone who's playing was to soft, and then loud as the baton could reach into the skies. It had to be Mammon, a worship not far from the devil, but directed unto God. So they let him on his way, knowing that he would not find success in this world, but would be remembered when he was passed to the beyond. But by then, they would truly be interred, and would not care at all. After all, they would not only be dead, but forgotten as well. Where as he would be reverenced even by people who could not say his name, because they spoke Chinese, which is a language he desperately wanted to speak. But there was no time, he needed to copy the words in front of the eyes that were asleep.

Copy, copy, copy. Though in the real life, he moved not all. But in the nightmare, he rattled and extenuated the letters which he heard. It was not poetry, but something like it that moved his hands, and faces recalled that humbled letters which were the sounds of harmony.

He founded a malignancy that had outspread his ever eager involucrum, consisting of his mortality, and beyond his morphogenesis and morphology. He was incommunicado, resting on the hidden sounds from within his brain. But he would have to write these down. It was his obsession, has with every one who sticks quil into paper, and then rises to do so in the real life, basically dictating the consistency that his dreamlife demanded.

But the surprises would not end, there were flashes of genius, and a monotonous thrum that came out of his fingers, because the mouth would not utter it at all.

It was like a god, several stories high, searching for the next willing victim.

And when it found it, it would terrorize first, and then crush it, while looking for his next directing. Debussy was terrorized, but copied and decried the inner life of his automaton. There was something unnerving about the face which stormed out of his imagination, and left behind something which had no key signature to speak of, but was in semitone.

And then it marched onwards over the horizon, making a mockery of the imagined defenses, which were erected for the defense of men who were not really there, but imagined in the mind, and on the pallet. If he had been a painter, he would create on the canvas as did Argentois. Who had just discovered ein pliene eire, or something like that, in French.

There was a flash of light, in mysterious source Kwangtung induced phase that transported his imaginary transcriptions, in to what would be day.

Then he rouse from sleep, and, has was his usual fashion, set himself to bathing and dressing, as if to go out in to the herbaceous dawn, which he would look at, but only from the inside. He remembered how Berlioz would write things in memory, and new that falling asleep and mesmerize was the next step in the chain.

Then a missed the crash, there came a roar, that made the imaginary walls shake and shiver, and in every backbone of every audience member, at first real, and in time crackling on vinyl, shoot straight up in two there seats, as if coming to erect. It was a blinding flash which was carried by sound alone, which echoed with the sites of the instruments portraying the electric - in a imaginary way - flash and din.

And then it was gone, wafting to gentle sleep, and precursor to La Mer - which would be the final step towards this new music.

But there was silence, and the first time it was played, he knew that a third movement would have to be another section, which would be human voices, but no words, just vowels to carry the imagined tune. Then there would be to silence, until the applause came in. which, honestly, he hated. Why could they not see that silence was a better thing than the smacking of lips. He wrote one time, that the applause was really just a form of holding one's own until one deserved applause oneself.

And then there was to infinity of silence, which rained over all who knew that that was the correct feeling.

But those were few in number, and they would retreat and with a filter cry would deny the noisy response of all of the other attendees to the concert, where ever they were, whatever the times and.