The owls are not here no more. - pt. one

Part one : the satin sheet

The room is lit by natural light shining trough two large windows with beatiful and expensive curtains. There is a bed in the room with a sleeping grown woman and an unmade other side of the bed where someone has left a shirt and a pair of used socks in a heap right by the pillow.

act one : Mary Jane wakes up early and remembers that her husband had a late night at the office, and as she turns expecting to see his sleeping slightly beirded face she realizes that she is indeed alone in the bed, but that judging by the clothes she can safely asumme that he is somewhere around the house.

she gets up and finds a note on the door.. She goes into a reading position and a voice fills the room. As if she imagines the sound of him reading the letter.

I should first conclude with the ambivalent manifesto I found in the chest-pocket of my messed up shirt this morning.. It gives me goosebumbs and makes me shiver even thou I must have read it about fifteen times now. It is also my reason for writing this note to you, dear.. Here goes :

In every sentence and for the sake of this haven filled to the brim with heathens, also in between every word, line and scrabbled authours comment in the margins, I see the words of a man hiding in the shadows of the truth occuring to him more and more for every word written and in time, read. Is this what they call a catch22? Is this what they call timetravelling? A broken man, forced on his knees by the chain of events unraveling in images before him just as they unraveled mere hours ago last night before it turned into said morning. I do think this qualifies as morning.. The birds are surely whistling theire songs now, the other animals are probably whispering about what has happended over the night. (Atleast I imagine this, but then I remember that we humans are alone in the category of living as opposed to only surviving. Can we claim that, I wonder after feeling what I have felt this night) I want to learn. but then the owls are not here no more and I have lost contact with the open parts of me again.

dear Arthur - I shall meet us on the stones eh?

this concludes my note to you dear.. I cannot find the piece of soulfire I read that made me write this, but remembering that I dont think you are ready for it and that I still wrote it only for myself I am glad of it.

As you might allready have figured out, I am this man also now. Here in the absolution of sweetness manifestated in our life together I am as puzzled by the fact that these written words are of my own making and I truly wish to find the broken manifesto I must have written to inspire this other side of me to write the quoted note about the third note im writing you dear. Oh god, these words are not me.. They are not from the same planet as I am, nor from any planet I ever imagined. These words.. These proofs that there is a colour even darker than what lurks in the shadows of great ages, still reminds me of many things i sure as hell promised both myself and everyone i knew to pass into nothingness.

I have gone out to seek these truths none the less and you could not have stopped me. I could not have either and this I know because you are the better part of me. Always have been. There is some cold turkey in the fridge and some rice on the stove.. I do not know when I will be back, but I felt the tail of something hitting me in the face sometime during the night, And im going away from here to chase it down. goodbye for now dear..

- Arthur

The woman stands still for a moment and sircles the room once or twice. Seemably in confusion. She then lifts the phone of the hook and calls the police. Officer Charles picks up, and old friend of hers..

Part two will be coming soon