The key --- how to read a story

  All that has now come to show is just another face of reality... no corners are untouchable when a fingernail points out to the core and strikes the midnight hour as someone awaits on the bridge to say goodbye to another unsolved mistery... Once upon a time there was a story in a book and it captured all stories in the world in a small drop of acid falling on top of the red fragrance of a Summer flower changing the whole chemical aspect of matter and matters.... The neutral part of one can never speak before the dawn when what is to be discarded shall fade in the forgetful pages of a novel written just in time for bed and perfectly out of time for a well mastered arty frame drawing souls on the wall of a church where only a lullaby can play the echo of the past left to linger for eternity in a temporarily perpetual paradox of radiant frequency.
    There, beyond the stars and out onto cold stone, wood or whatever worldly element might cool down the feet of a tired strider of these lands, there lies an answer key to the way of reading all the stories that had been previously written and engraved in beautiful sculptures of perfection on the hearts of spirits to be only summoned at night, to sing a flowy lament and to vanish into cloudpouder... the scientists who contradict this might have never had a dream out of their own mind and the fear of going beyond everything there is might still master their idea of living life and playing with the exit sign because they cannot see its luminous glow... However they too shall some day read a story that will change their ballance on ground and make them dive away from an anxious suspicion into the hypersensitivity of what was once a tale and a brick of gravity for the standing horisons... May the one who finds the key open the lockers of all forgotten and forgetful hearts!!!

Ines and the Storyteller ( unedited prototype version)

  We joined hands and started talking about alliances in the dark... When the day shall shine light upon these lands I shall be gone and now until my departure I have to play with my magical pencil, drawing and denying my own small flash... The milk is cold... the old portuguese houses, the lady Ines listening to my talk on ideologies, on wars and soldiers on what I saw upon my journey, the calm summer night emerging by our sides covering the face of my host with a shadow of mistery. I cannot drink the milk because it is so pure and tasty that my touch might even hurt the whiteness but Ines encourages me with a smile and begins to sing. I like it when she sings for her voice is sweet and calm. I take the milk and wish it were hot so that it might help me sleep early. I want to leave at dawn and maybe all the signs of blood on my body shall be cleared and my fever subsided by then. She keeps on singing and the milk turns suddenly hot in my hand. Stunned I keep on trying to find out what is wrong however Ines transfigures the once calm and sweet notes into something different. The wild tones of her voice take me up to the image of a harsh jungle and as my bones ache in pain and questions the metallic inflections of the song turns Ines into a precious stone of alchemy by a golden dusty light mixture. She cannot stop summoning fire and flames twisting her dress in her dance of illusion. She takes a pair of beautiful wings and hands them over to me as I fly by a song of ancestral reminders holding a small bit of fire in my hands and building up castles with guilded towers. A pegasus strikes midnight with a fabulous wing and from behind the clock, an old man appears with his eternal bag of sleepy sand washing my tears away with a river and throwing me in a hot dense soft pouder wrapped by a fairy on a black restful rose . I am now so small I might as well be detected with a nano camera or some fantastic digital tool on a way to reality... What kind of borring story did I tell Ines so that she turned me to innitial stardust? She told me I could stay at her house if I told her a story and accepted to listen to her singing which was no hard task.... Now she threw an upset eye on the mirror where she could see my whole existence created by her waves of melody.   The wise angel with a shining sword struck three at night and fire came to me once more purifying what I used to be while aching my dehydration with hot softness... Four, five and six the small hours under a big pressure with four kings, five knights and six piano keys subsequently hiding or revealing me till dawn, till the iceman frose her song and kissed my forhead with a cold texture of awakening cries... I run out to the Sun out of the house from which Ines had dissappeared and tasted the sweetness of a portuguese orange. I do not know what that really was but I know that I should not take life that seriously any longer and....... instead of fearing the pain and hostilities of the world I should really understand the impact of a good story. If I happen to come by your house all tired and asking for shelter host me with love and I shall bring the beauty of night as your storyteller......