Prince Myshkin; Joseph Necht;
Pierre;
your gods had a weakness
for irony.
You were their apostles.
Tell us now, what really happened.

----------------------------------------------------

where left and right are naught

and there is only inside -

There can be no separation, too much is shared:
poems on the walls,
paintings in the
windows.

When the air is
thick with Turpentine and Mercury vapor,
it is only pain
that must be known
(in absolute time),
And when it's known
then that's another time.

The staircases see this. They hear him cry out in the dark. They see him in his palsey, shaken 'til his teeth rattle.
But they have not heard him say those words, those tragic words;
the ones that silence the whirlwind.
For this, they have decided they will not make him stumble and fall, no matter how lop sided his use of them is. They look at him and say, "He is too pathetic to hurt."

After this, he didn't take them out of obigation any more, he wanted to make them happy, for them to feel his feet on their steps. When he was at the top or bottom of one of them, he was swept away by their beauty as they lay themselves before him. Warm gratitude and love, that's what he started feeling for them.
They made a pact; he would see their beauty and love them for it, and they would not kill him, no matter what, (at least for now).
-------------------------------------------------------------------