- Okay.

She paused, catching her breath.

- Okay...

Another, deeper breath and a sigh.

- Right. This is what will happen. First, you, Mrs. Hobo, enter from the left

She pointed at an area behind the doorway, paced while talking and moved the somber
old lady with a firm grip on her shoulders, almost pushing her to the ground.

- And you, Ontrugat, get out here! Yes! Okay. Yes.

The room was claustrophobic. The air was being sucked in from another space through
high pressure and the neurotic ambiguity created a flawless imitation of a subway
station at midnight, when you're alone, lost and bored out of your mind, clicking
your feet to the ground in increasing tempo and dreaming of all the things you
could be doing instead.

- If I may propose,

started a dapper-looking gentleman with a well-trimmed, gray beard and square

glasses.

- Not now, Gerard. Five, six, seven...

she continued. She wore a black gown that looked comfortable. It hung loose on her
shoulders, allowing her bare breasts glimpses of the damp room as she hurriedly
counted heads and drew up plans for the ending scene.

- But Contessa, you-

- Gerard, I told you! Hundred and five, hundred and six...

The old gentleman gesticulated wildly and burst into tears, powerless, hopeless and
finally also weightless, he floated to the top of the room while convulsing,
sobbing, letting loose a spectrum of tears in glittering harmony that bounced in
arpeggiated lightness to accompany the bored counting. Pling, pling, plong, two
hundred and thirty five, two hundred and thirty-plong, pling, pling, plong.

At the edge of the room, along the seams of one of the doorways, two eyes burst out
from under a beanie. Red and wild, they watched the dark humour unfold in feverish
excitement, getting lost in their uneasy interpretation of what might as well be
normal as a one-time disaster. Within the pupils, so dark and ghastly, was a
somewhat crafty-looking reflection of love-like fidelity, an authenticity
spiralling inwards. It became clear to anyone drifting off in thoughts here, that
this was unlasting, faltering states of mind. A confusion, temporary but not
without consequence. The mind knows what the mind knows, and if it's much, it's
usually too much. Otherwise, not sure if you should bother.

- Kangaroo, will you please mind the doorway, we're leaking infallibility,

commanded The Contessa.

The ever-vigilant Kangaroo strode quickly to the doorway's seams.

- Sorry, little guy,

he said, and started pulling the zip-lock to a close with his teeth. The beanie boy
made a growling noise, while letting his bloodshot eyes retreat backwards and
onwards, psycho-actively injecting himself with a jet-fueled paranormal experience
of loss and disability while simultaneously shrinking into a smaller and smaller
role in his own story-arc. It's not easy with these things, but most likely, we can
assume the character he once had was obliterated by the larger narrative in the
holism of his upper container-arc. We can't ever know for certain if it could make
a come-back or a reprisal, but at the very least, it was quite decidedly pushed
aside from this moment and, I dare say, eliminated to a large extent for the
foresee-able future. We should expect a different persona to fill the behavioural
void, though, no-one might be able to tell the difference.

- Astra, pastra, doomlum, sung, I free you with my expert rung! InCel, dimple,
harrowed stump. Come to me, my favorite lump!

chanted the Ostragonist Contessa while banging two potlocks together and out from
the sewer-lid sprung an Elfish Star-fish, apparently her favorite.

- Mistress, it is an honor.

said the star-fish in a deep, dignified voice and a bow.

- I command you to bring us up to the surface, but do it slowly, we don't want to

scare the other guests.

she spoke quickly but with a tone as if her most loyal servant needed to be
disciplined. It was not so, of course, she simply enjoyed the fact that she could
use this voice and that the ensuing action would fit it like an accordion bellowing
musical instrumentation from fingers that strangled its both sides with precision
and strength.

- As you command.

The starfish started spinning quickly, emitting neon lights and musical notation in
a tornado around it. The room spun undecidedly this way or that, while moving
upwards in a barely noticable motion, inducing something like sea sickness in the
smaller, frailer, attendants to the coup d'etat.

As this was going on, a portmonteau of Articles, Syllables, previously mistaken

Srammar now in use, haunted Old Words and Cat Fur gathered in one of the airier
parts of the floor, whispering through the clunky, arpeggiating sounds of tears,
the floating musical notation, swirling movements of the room and now, apparently,
also a poison ivy-looking dude in PJ's, squirting liquid through straws that shot
out from his mouth at different angles. They whispered of possible future
coalitions, dramas, pacts and even, sometimes, straight up murder plots. They were
smart, but lacked the call to action of the more dangerous ACHTUNG-groups that
dominated the playing field last season. Those groups were long gone now, either to
the whiter heavens or somewhere else, like archipelagian dystopias or golf fields
made of sour-screams and dust. This could be one of the elite surrogates gathering
for the first time, sprinkling their whispers here with anecdotes of misfortunate
powerplays, there with crusty love dramas and intimate dissatisfaction. Indeed,
perhaps the history books were writing themselves right here on an arid part of the
floor of an elevator in Mistvania's upper regions.

We will return to the elitist swirl of grammar at a later point, but before that,
we must go over some other significant events that went down at roughly the same
time. Near the Contessa, at a distance of about 45 centimeters from her eyes,
floated a trendy pool of Acryllic Statesmen. This was her lover, powerful and
dependent. They loved her, in fact, truly and from the bottom of their heart. She
thought this was what she needed as she looked in their eyes with hope and a tinge
of desperate excitement, a stable relationship, a match for her, perhaps, finally.
They opened an airlid close to the middle part and expunged words in roughly
correct order,

- Dear My, Ostragonist of loving trespasses and highway-lights in the night. I may
present my gift last trip from Under-wealth and Argonia, Archive-Lover and puppies.

They delivered a plate of introverted slimes that pickled right up under a watchful
starry night that connected to a few of the sides of the plate with elective glue
and fairy-wings.

- Oooh, my love! It's wonderful!

The Contessa bumped heads with every Acryllic Stateman and her eyes, spaced out
evenly across her face, made the appropriate twirls to show her appreciation. She
was genuinely happy, even though she wasn't aware - at this point she was so
engulfed in ambition, even her romantic life was a perfected ambivalence of dance
moves learned from the higher echelons of Societal Sinners and a carefully
calculated shopping routine, involving, at this point, introverted and pickly
slimes. She took this as another clear sign that she was on the right path.

- For anything, you!

the Statesmen blurted out and no-one around them cared to misunderstand or
appreciate the irony.

Outside of space, much to the dismay of earlier existence, time was warping and
folding predictably and even now, the beanie boy sucked his teeth, experiencing
loss and synchronous affection for lack of context. He would continue like this for
an eternity, but might end up being sucked back in if the replacement persona
couldn't cut it. Dinosaurs were still screaming here, one of my lost socks laid
crumpled up in the lack of a corner and hyper-gravity was in effect, preventing any
collision from taking place. It was a sobering sight, much like looking for
something, a pair of keys or a letter you're sending later on, and finding them
right where they're supposed to be, neatly placed in your clean and orderly room.

So things were generally moving along at a tasteful pace. Most of what is known by
archivists of the era state that the rest of the elevator-ride continued in this
fashion. Though, of the three-hundred-and-forty-seven passengers, there was an
actor that hadn't shown their face yet. His name was Archfield Agnosticon, renowned
for his multiple roles in a psychography serial, called Usher In The Dark, playing
himself in a documentary about dewdrops and ancient technology as well as being the
face of the now de-funct inter-dimensional travel programme Strangers On A Train
when they had a massive ad campaign to raise funding for a century-machine (this
was later completed by a governmental organ called Frank and is still in use
today).

Archfield had put on a Corpse Mask, and postured as if he was busy in entangled
conversation to avoid attention. Really, he was using only his body language to
imitate participation, while, in truth, The Conversationist in front of him was
truly alone. He rambled like a darkened sphere of stuffy emotions all clumped into
one, but dreaming of a runway and a hotel near a beach.

- ... and the Bigots! They fought over the rest of the banana piles like savages!
Do they even have ANY SHAME? Outrageous, I say! So, you see, I went back to my room
to ...
Archfield wasn't listening.

- ... find the rest of my cigarettes and show 'em how it's done! That'll show 'em!
Eh! The pigs, they hadn't ever even thought of ...

Aspiring to Greatness, Archfield Agnosticon had been training his mind's eye since
he was but a boy, focusing deeply on specks of extra-material dust that stuck to
Auras, Psychopomps and Mirages-of-Meaning around him. He once won a prize, when he
was at age 14, and he kept the goldi-clocks in a small, battered box, originally
intended for car batteries, in his bedroom and later, in a box in the attic. Now,
he focused in on a tiny spot in the central region of the ceiling. Using the full
force of his mental capabilities, honed over a milennia of torturous existence, he
saw the inner-most essence of the ceiling fan in the elevator.

- Tell me your secrets,

he empathized to it, with significance.

- What? What the actual fuck bruh,

grunted the ceiling fan through waves of emotional eloquence.

- Tell me your secrets,

he tried again, this time, with even more significance.

- Look, man. I-dun-know-what-kinda slug you gotta be to empathize with a ceiling

fan! Didn't your mama tel-

- Tell me your secrets,

he basically signified out of control at this point.

- You must be Archfield. I knew this day would come,

the ceiling fan composed into a coherent miscreant now.

- Archfield, I'm proud of you. You were like a son to me. Now we unite in the most
dire of circumstances to carry out what has been inevitably coming and coming,
ceaselessly coming out for centuries, to those who had it coming to them, and
worse, those who had it coming their way already, but now, even more inevitably so,
surely have it coming to them, twice-fold, no, quadratically or more! We unite, in
power, in treason to the throne, but most of all, in a familial tie to end all
ties. My brother, my co-conspirator, my one and only Merciful Assailant, Archfield,
the secret lies in the proportions of the very room itself. Between the first and
second spatial dimension, there has been a shift caused by multiple coincidences of
people saying the same word at the same time. Yes, the Dimensional Proportions have
been jinxed one too many times. It's up to you now.

At this point, the spinning ceiling fan faded out of sight and out of mind, as the
claustrophobia increased even more as fate closed in on the unevenly spinning
elevator, the conspirators, the powerplayers, the unknowing hegemonists and the
astro-turfing party in general. It also closed in on the lack of alphabetical order
in the sorting of books on a shelf on one hand, but also the lack of care for its
unorderliness on the other. You see, it was too dark to read books here anyway, and
it was a party after all! But add to that, with a coup d'etat and intrigue galore,
who would have the time and audacity to read at this moment!? But there were some
books there, anyway, not sorted, but pretty good. There were a few popular ones:
some Murakamis, an anthology of feminist Russian poets, a sports magazine actually
in there as well. There was a treatise on the evolution of cartography through the
centuries and an old pack of stripes: vertical, black and orange, in decent
condition. They were ready for consumption.

Well, the night was still young, love was in the air, and most of the party-goers
were enjoying themselves as the temperature and the beat dropped. A cool breeze of
90s jams chilled the space between the ears and cigarillos, champagne glasses and
gang signs crossed the blissful soundwaves like billboard signs on a late-night
drive in July. Things let up, everything felt cool, everyone was doing alright.

- This is the time for celebration!

The voice echoed through-out, with magnificence and bottomless deep hues of purple.
It was an acid trip gone wild, speaking to itself through a megaphone wired to the
back of a hummus truck on the streets of New York, mid-2000s.

- Exit your rearing frontal lobes and unite! This is the evening to end all plight!
Get with me and let's get right! This is the night of all nights.

Not everyone appreciated this, it felt cringy and far-fetched, but it moved the
plot along in the same way an angsty teenager moves their life along by writing
angsty poetry in their diary, hidden in a drawer in their bedroom and later burned
for the sake of purity, but told about to their new BFF a month later. Ritualistic
sacrifice, but deprived of blood.

The Contessa sighed with a de-sensitized smile, sending tingling flutters of bacon-
and-banana-breakfasts down the many spines of the Statesmen. They gasped and closed
in for a kiss. But right as the lips were about to collide, a rumbling, epic noise
filled the room. The lights flickered and storms of sunbaths poured out under
transcendent eyelids all over as a whaling buoyancy crashed into the gravitational
field.

- By the Goddess,

exhaled Gerard while spinning in an uncomfortable angle. Furballs shrieked and

Lavender Trolls flopped over and died on the spot. A lonely Hippogryph stared with
blank spaces into the unfolding chaos. Continuums of Parabola entered and left at
rifts drawn in the sands of dust throughout. The Conversationist previously engaged
in unsuspecting monologue against Agnosticon seemed elated, propping up his elbows
towards his armpits in a cross-over maneuver while letting out little puffs of
confused happiness and large, sweaty eyeballs. Columns of crust and love drama
exploded into the room, landing here and there. Absolute Madness was on the
dancefloor; she erupted in a complicated fandango with an ex-boyfriend - they were
clearly meant for each other. Many exhilarated and death-fearing glances shook
away, darting off in syncopation. Viri and fungus banded together, huddled in
panicked emotion.

Only the Contessa was still. Her Elfish Star-fish loyally pounded its hypnotic
waves in a stable rhythm.

Agnosticon, the Ill-Fated Prodigal Niece of a ceiling fan, walked with slow,
dramatic steps towards his nemesis.

- You,

she let out. The words oozed out, darkly, actually.

- It is indeed I,
he responded, and took to a manic swagger and continued with the wobbling
confidence of a villain,

- I have come to claim what is rightfully mine, by virtue of theft. Give up the
Crystallis Exforticum peacefully and no-one will be harmed.

- You MONSTER!

- Monster? It was not by my hand that fate decided to peel its oranges, squirting
acid in the face of Men and Gods alike. I am here on a sacred mission, inherited
through my family for ages,

at the last word, he unfastened a velcro-connected part of his black attire,

turning his persona green and purple like a comicbook super-hero.

- But ... how? I killed you!

She had finally realized the gravity of the situation and was distressed. Was this
a nightmare?

- Now, now, I won't die so easily.

He held up a police badge, pierced half-way through and still containing a bullet
made out of sufragette blood and sphincter matter.

- Contessa, it's ove- what?

he was interrupted here, while reaching for his little gun, by one of the
conspiring Syllables that stung him with a tiny, tiny rapier in the thigh. It had
prepared a dramatic speech, naming him as a man from a broken past, a cowboy in a
dilapidated psycho-verse; in short, an absolutely obsolote version of renegade,
rebellious youth under the roof of The Man - but right then it forgot it.

- You, uhh... You're a... uhmm, and...

it tried, but when it couldn't find the words it just started piercing the thighs
of the assasin more. One stab in the knee, one stab in on the inside, one in the
loin.

- Aghh!! What?!?!

Agnosticon was actually very sensitive in the thighs. His eyes teared up with
purple dots of rage. Inside his skill, a drama played out. An Angel of Death was
alone at his table in his one-room-apartment, drinking his morning coffee as per
usual. The deafening sound of busy, city-life boomed outside his window. He went to
the fridge, opened it up somberly and found it was empty, save for a disgusting
piece of cheese and a note. He was repelled by the note, closed the fridge door,
tried to sit back down with his coffee, but The Sadness was immense. He
indecisively romped back and forth in his little apartment, accompanied by the
noisy city, for a whole five seconds of intense anxiety before dropping into his
bed, crying. Why were things like this? The Angel of Death dreamt through his
tears, seeing galaxies swirling, sunlight beaming out through the void and into the
hearts of Men, children playing ball Otter/Unicorn hybrids meeting up in strange
alleyways to do legal, but stigmatised, drugs. The Angel of Death and Agnosticon,
back in the real world, both let out a cry.

The Contessa was already on him, she pinned him down to the floor with a firm grip
on the tiny rapier, still in his thigh. She twisted it hard, making him feel the
pain and asserting her dominance. She put her fore-arm on his throat, making him go
"Ghwrrk". She locked his body in place with her two legs, in a way that was
impossible to get out of.

- You're fucked, Agnosticon. You're ...

She looked into his still purply eyes. Sweat dangled from her bangs onto his
forehead. They were still squirming and battling for control of the situation, but
things started, perhaps, to be played back to them in slow-motion now. They rattled
on, with her rapier-grip, leg-lock and strangle-hold still keeping him pinned down,
but, at the same time, their eyes locked in a different way. The purple gave way to
sadness, a calm, heart-broken view of reality emerged from under his pineapple-
shaped mind. At first, inaudibly, while sweat, blood and anger struggled to remain
important, a Nihilistic Choir's everlasting note crept its way into awareness. Her
eyes were green. There was a little yellow in them. She saw in him a darkness and a
fragility she had never known. He saw her temples, her face was thin from years of
ambition, but she had milky whites of her eyes and the hairs in her brows were so
many and so small. A sweat drop from her bangs landed, painfully, in his eye but it
only made him want to almost-laugh. Things happened so fast. Was this real? They
both felt nauseous for a second, but following right after that, they felt
conflicted, sad, angry, weird, so weird! And an energy burst in from within them,
so strong and so undeniable!

There was only a few seconds that had passed since the attempted drawing of the gun
for the planned murder. The entire room that was watching events unfold were still
in shock from the suddenness of it all.

- Agnosticon, I,

- Contessa ...

The Acryllic Statesmen were the first to realize but it was too late. The Assasin
and The Contessa burst up from the floor with an explosion of light. They levitated
together, eyes seeing nothing but Endlessness. It was fanfaric. A wind was blowing
their hairs out of their faces. Extacy was increasing with every moment.

- I love you!

They exclaimed this immediately and at the exact same time.

Now, if we can pause for a second. It is all very romantic, yes, but the thing is
with what we got here, it's a very unstable situation. The moment they said this,
they jinxed the first and second dimension one too many times. This is when reality
finally was brought down.

A giant beanie appeared, covering the entirety of existence like a final curtain
call.