Melancholy of An Architect

He is an architect of soundscapes. Senseless with passion he stands before a pending deluge. Rapt is he to the resounding din within the halls of his skull. At night, the architect will dream of faces they smile and laugh—they cry and sigh, and he must reconcile with the knowledge that he is responsible for their being, as incomplete as they may be. They chant his name at the brimming of the storm—he hears their voices as whispers. There is a grind which pulses perpetually through as he hears the endless ringing, through rime and reason. As chaos descends upon him, he peels back his flesh to better feel the salt from the ocean. Waves engulf him. Although he is afraid, he submits to the tempest. Underneath the water’s surface are endless observations for his eye. Swirling shades of chaos glimmer above as he shouts profound profanities to heaven. As the storm recedes, the water will dismiss the architect from suffering. He then must dredge the bodies—blue-faced and bloated—to the dry banks of his stream of consciousness—where autopsies may yield some connotation, but never certainty.