The Eleven Day Tale: The Final Day

The Eleventh Epiphany: Habitation of the Mansion

I may have fallen asleep. Or I may have died, for just a little while. I was in the arms of angels at certain points; and I was also ignited by light in flame. I had one hundred dreams. I may have been drugged; or I may have died, for just a little while.

The Eleventh Epiphany is never less than Ace High.

Upon waking, I found myself in the denoument of a milky dream, a great white fog lifting. Beneath my feet grew an endless and lush plain, each blade of grass soft as a pillow. I walked, and climbed a hill that was in front of me. Atop this hill, after a picnic of peanut butter and tequila, I stripped myself bare and found a Thor-sized axe in my hand.

The Eleventh Epiphany wants to know: Are you a page in this great epic, or a bookmark?

Atop this hill, as the fog became a high ceiling of bright, opulent cloud, I tore myself down. It was exhausting work. I napped. When I awoke, there rose a spiral staircase from the rubble. It latticed upward perhaps one hundred feet before disappearing into the clouds.

The Eleventh Epiphany wants you to practice whistling one perfect note.

I decided to climb the ladder (of course...who would feel they had a choice!). I placed my left foot to the bottom step and the sun broke through the clouds with a sudden and brilliant clamor of light. A shadow rose from behind me. When I turned, I set my eyes on the mansion, my mansion, that I had built where the rubble of my old apartment had stood for years, decaying.

The Eleventh Epiphany, in the Basic computer language, could read this way: 110 GOTO 10

I strode to the great, dark doors. Mahogany, I thought. Beautiful. I noticed that my mansion had many large and wide windows. Inside, where it was well-lit by the sunshine, I could not see ceilings. My mansion, I had built it with plenty of floors, but nothing to interfere from above.

The Eleventh Epiphany is an empty book, with infinite pages, and your name scribed in gold on the cover. The Eleventh Epiphany hands you God's favorite pen and whispers, 'Create.'

I entered. The smell inside was the spice of cinnamon and nutmeg, coriander and clove, the sweetness of orange blossom and rose. There was also a smell of me, my own musk, as if it had been rubbed like oil into the wood. There was also a smell of electricity.

The Eleventh Epiphany is the repeat/random button on your CD player.

With one great leap I soared to the third floor. I knew I could fly. I knew that now I could fly. After all, that was why I had built this home. From the third floor I could step outside onto a half-moon balcony from any of countless rooms. I parted the great glass doors and stepped into sunshine. Now I could see all of the endless plush green valley. And scattered out across this warm land, dotting hills and horizons, were countless other mansions. Your mansions.

The Eleventh Epiphany contains multitudes.

With a smile I leapt from the balcony. With a laugh I flew out over the valley.

The Eleventh Epiphany contains the all-of-Yous.

This is the Eleventh Epiphany: I am still soaring. I may have fallen asleep. Or I may have died, for just a little while. I may be awake, or I may be dreaming. But the descriptive state of my consciousness no longer matters.

I am still soaring.

permalink