Le destroyer des rêves
Bernard stumbled out into the Parisian afternoon. Grey haze and wolf cries enveloped Bernard's mind. His eyes saw nothing in front of him of Paris. Only gastly images of spirits rending flesh, screams of pain, ghostly twirling visions of filth and stench, that seared him with teeming multitudes of claws at his body. Trees were hellbent with rapacious malevolence at him. The entire world seemed like it was night and he was walking on his last walk, a condemned walk to a grave. Shadowy stones cropped up and tormented Bernard, each with an epitaph of contempt and rage at Bernard, and then fade away like a boat that passes a swamp, leaving markers behind.
"You will never see art again."
"You are worthless and disgusting."
"You are the wretched vomit of existance."
"Blot out your life, it's useless."
Then the laughs began, coming from behind, no, now forward, now behind. He was at once detached and yet directly present, as if he was watching a play, and Bernard was in it. The last pitiful, dejected footsteps of a once great and powerful man led him to the center of the city.
As the pressure in his mind grew ever the more tortureous, numbed till all hope faded from the soul outward, Bernard began to cry.
The witch followed him to the Eiffel tower as night began to fall.
"You will never see art again."
"You are worthless and disgusting."
"You are the wretched vomit of existance."
"Blot out your life, it's useless."
Then the laughs began, coming from behind, no, now forward, now behind. He was at once detached and yet directly present, as if he was watching a play, and Bernard was in it. The last pitiful, dejected footsteps of a once great and powerful man led him to the center of the city.
As the pressure in his mind grew ever the more tortureous, numbed till all hope faded from the soul outward, Bernard began to cry.
The witch followed him to the Eiffel tower as night began to fall.