Current mood:	creative
Entry tags:	lyric 7

This is my current situation.

Lyric 7

Author: Mushroom
Rating: PG-13 (Rating is subject to change)
Notes: This is a new series which is quite similar to Pallidula Rigida Nudula, (see sidebar) but could be read separately. It has the same setting though—a world like our own but one that isn’t ours.
Disir - these are spirits who attach themselves to a particular place, usually man-made. Example: old houses, empty buildings
Hypnogogia – An illness related to hallucination—dreaming while still awake, although the body is paralyzed.




Someone was following him.

He looked back, frightened. The moon was high. It was another boy.

“who are you?”

“i am you. or rather, i am borrowing your form. only for a while, though, because i can’t seem to find me for the moment.”

“i’m daman. mum calls me daman-honey, but you’re not allowed to use it, cos you’re not mummy. hey, i know what. maybe mummy can find your me.”

“i doubt it. is that your mother hanging?”

He glanced up. The other figure grew thin.

“she wasn’t there yesterday.”

“mmm.”

“she hates you people. mummy said i shouldn’t talk to you.”

“then don’t. listening is enough.”

The little boy trembled. “don’t leave me! stay by my side always.”

“i’ve been with you since you were born, as you were assigned to me and vice versa, so i don’t really have a choice. but i need rest, after all. there might be someone else who'll be willing to do what you wish. so, i’ll be seeing you. tomorrow, by the lampshade.”

A cloud rolled by, and he vanished in the darkness.








Chapter I – Camellia’s Choice


Such is this maddening fascination grown,
So strong thy magic
Or so weak am I.

- Lord Byron


Daman Kayne was magical.

At the age of one he swore that he managed to climb up the long stairs by himself. Daman believed that he had super-strength, that he could defeat anyone who dared defy him; and this he fixed in his mind with determination. Even with a frail, skinny body and dark, unevenly cropped hair that was the center of torment and jokes from his playmates, he successfully crushed his adversaries in a glorious battle over the sandbox, using his hard feet to kick them on the shins.

His mother—surprisingly—opposed the idea of exposing his immense strength and scolded him. Daman should be a good boy, she said snappily, so that other kids would play with him. Daman loved his mother because she had beautiful grey eyes and cooked delicious breakfast, so he covered up his strength for her sake. Even after Daman saw her hanging from a rope, blood spilling from her bruised mouth, he followed her words.

However, Daman also discovered that he had other innate abilities. He could climb up a large oak tree in just fifteen minutes, remain suspended in midair for more than a second before landing on the cold asphalt, recite his ABC’s in a sing-song while hanging upside down from the monkey bars, and absorb thick books in less than three hours, to name a few. Daman knew he was special; his friends told him so. Daman befriended a variety of creatures: one of his closest friends was Missis Erzulie, a beautiful wood-nymph who gave the little boy the privilege to sit on her branches once he offered her a white dove to care for. He also had other interesting friends; Ingvar, the merry dark figure who copied his movements when the moon was high, and Obi, the ball of dust beneath his bed which he believed to be a Disir. Of course, his bestest-best friend remained Akia, the golden dog his father once owned before he walked out of Daman’s life.

So then everybody said poor Daman Kayne, he’s all alone now, his mother—bless her suffering soul—is probably burning in hell, and his good-for-nothing father abandoned him, but little Daman shook his head and giggled because they were wrong, so wrong. He was magical; he wasn’t alone.

Upon his mother’s death and his father’s disappearance, Daman Kayne was adopted by his kindly aunt and uncle until they passed away as well; so his only living relative was Ciara Lunnaire, their daughter. She was bossy and thought him weird, and usually called him names like Lil’ Demon and Sneaky Brat and Mental, but she took good care of him nonetheless.

When Daman decided that Ciara Lunnaire was worthy enough to know his secret, he confessed one summer night. “Lune,” he said, using her charming nickname, “I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?” she asked wearily, tying her mousy brown hair in a messy ponytail.

“Akia,” said Daman, “Akia can talk. She’s my friend. We talk a lot. You can try talking to her, too. She won’t bite, promise. Oh, and I’d like you to meet Missis Erzulie too, and Corryn, and his Aunt Nancy, and…”

Ciara Lunnaire thought that it was pretty normal to talk to dogs, so she waved the matter away airily with her hand and went back to her business. But when Daman started spouting nonsense about dust balls and whistling furniture and doppelgangers with such a pleasant smile that could not lie, she knew there was something wrong. Daman was not a child anymore, after all. He was twenty-six.


***


Daman went to see doctors and psychiatrists and other annoying people who said the same thing: you must grow up, sure, your past traumatic experiences forced you to drift away from reality, but you have an overactive imagination and it’s absolutely not normal for someone your age to believe that there is a talking block of wood in your backyard. You’re an adult, you’re old enough, you have to be responsible, and you’re not supposed to play games anymore. It’s time to drop the imaginary friends. Oh, and you’re probably suffering from Hypnogogia.

The doctors thought it strange that he was still affected by past experiences after surviving his adolescent years, which they figured was pure hell for him.

This is my life I’m living, and I’m not even hurting anybody, protested Daman Kayne, but they shook their heads and continued to disagree while using their fake, soothing voices as if they really cared about him in the first place.

Countless sessions were spent with these infuriating professionals, and when he grew tired of them he nodded and said numerous yeses and swallowed their prescriptions. He had his brain checked and it was reported to be normal (Ciara Lunnaire heaved a sigh upon hearing the good news). Daman jokingly said that it was just a phase; he probably woke up at the wrong side of the bed.

“What is the wrong side of the bed?” he wondered aloud, and immediately stopped himself from forming a litany because Ciara Lunnaire was shooting threatening looks from the other side of the session room.

He paid them because it was the proper thing to do, even if he hated their guts.

Daman had to hide his power once more, until he thought of a great idea to share it to the world. He became an author of children’s books. He wrote stories with mythical creatures and those only seen in fantasies under a fancy pen name, Wake-Robin Breen, and his descriptions and characters were so vivid and real that his books started disappearing from shelves. His third novel, The Thornapple Twins, became a Carrick Times bestseller, and his personal favorite, Hymns of the Everlasting, won several literary awards.

Nobody knew that for Daman Kayne, writing children’s books was like writing in a diary. He even asked Missis Erzulie’s permission when he chose her to be a supporting character in his next hit, The Aster Fields (the wood-nymph was very flattered, and kissed him on the cheek). Daman was simply selling his life story, and for once his world was accepted.


***


Ciara Lunnaire suggested a girlfriend.

“The main character can’t have a girlfriend, he’s a bullfrog,” retorted Daman, eyes glued on the computer screen as he typed a new chapter in his seventh book.

“I wasn’t referring to—oh, is that ALL you ever think about?!” She whacked him on the head with a hardbound copy of The Aster Fields. “You’re young, you’re handsome, and you’re damn rich. Well, almost. It’s about time you go out on dates. I never see you with anyone—“

“I’ve had girls already,” argued Daman. And it was true. When Daman was fifteen he dated a certain freckle-faced girl with green braces (they looked like spinach stuck on her teeth, and it sickened most people). She freaked out when he held a lively conversation with her guinea pig. Potential girlfriend number two slapped him when he told her she looked like a Black Hannis, which she found out to be a cannibalistic Hag. Potential girlfriend number five was almost bearable, until she revealed a disturbing passion for shopping, a fit that usually lasted for twelve hours or more. Daman had many more potential girlfriends who were drawn to his childlike nature and passions until they realized that they only liked his grey eyes—it was tiring putting up with his stories about things they hardly cared about. They all left him. His longest relationship with a lass lasted for two years, but that was because she moved to another place during the second month and her only letter arrived too late; it contained an ‘I didn’t love you in the first place’ message, along with a happy birthday card. He fooled around with women for seven years, and felt emptier and older in the process.

It was all right though, no worries. He didn’t love them anyway. Daman regretted though, the times he spent with them, and the lies and masks he was obliged to wear when they were around. The author had enough of girls. They were curvy and full-lipped, but they were too grumpy. After all the break-ups, he promised himself that he would hug and kiss the person, any person, who would consider him a normal human being, even if that person stank like hell or had other noticeable hygienic problems.

He also discovered that he was different; yes, having powers and seeing mystical creatures was part of it, but they could be kept secret. Yet…he was different. Way different. Super different.

Daman Kayne discovered he was a Zeus laying amorous eyes on his cupbearer, a Shakespeare creating his rhetoric Romeo, a Lord Byron, a Michelangelo sculpting his David and painting breathtaking, shapely figures of unclothed men that adorn the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Daman had never seen them however, only heard tales about this strange world called Earth from an exceptionally gloomy piskie. And they were awesome stories; he desperately wished there were Sistine Chapels in their own predictable world.

He tried to hold his uniqueness back, just as well as he hid his magical skills, but it was difficult.

“I am lonely,” admitted Daman wistfully, “But I don’t need another woman to make me happy. Besides, they all hate me. Except you, but you’re not another woman. ”

She rolled her eyes with a red face, obviously pleased at the special mention. “Whatever…if I walk in your study and see you buried under a pile of books, dead and cold, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Ciara Lunnaire really wanted him to go out and have some fun, because having a wife was the fastest way to grow up, and maybe, just maybe…Daman Kayne would drop his childhood fantasies and focus more on what is important. She also knew he was hiding something, but was too scared to ask.


***


Wake-Robin Breen’s editor called him for an urgent meeting very early in the morning, so Daman grabbed his coat, hat, and sunglasses before stepping out into the sunshine. It was a wonderful morning in the town of Anwar, and Daman greeted his neighbors even if he hated their guts (as well). The neighbors thought he was stupid and a nuisance to Ciara Lunnaire, and they often reminded him of his miserable situation. Daman thought they were too weak anyway, so he didn’t really mind them at all.

Daman Kayne said goodbye as Wake-Robin Breen entered his office. It was empty as usual, save for his editor and a man in a black suit seated beside him.

“Robin!” his editor stood up and shook his hand excitedly as if they did not meet the day before. He grimaced.

“It’s Wake-Robin.”

“Yes, yes,” said his editor, not quite listening. “I’m truly sorry for ringing you up at an ungodly hour, but I spotted Janne Killian along Larch Avenue and I wanted you to meet him quick. Robin—“

“Wake-Robin,” stressed Wake-Robin, until it hit him. “What—how—The Janne Killian?!”

His editor nodded, eyes just as wide.

Wake-Robin willed himself to finally observe the stranger. Janne Killian, the famous illustrator of his books, stood before him. Janne Killian, the artist who captured his ideas, his imagination, and incorporated them into pensive sketches and watercolour paintings. Janne Killian, who stared back with an amused face; he had hazel eyes and blonde, wavy hair streaked with red and black highlights that were just insane. Without the jaw-dropping hairdo, Janne Killian looked simple. Except that he didn’t, because he seemed ethereal. And the hair. Nobody dyed their hair those days. They believed it was poison.

He was that strange.

They had their staring game for approximately three minutes, until Janne Killian had the decency to clear his throat. Wake-Robin jumped from his place, but continued to gape.

The ‘illustrator’ smiled warmly, yet his eyes darted from side to side, showing that he was tense. “Hello! I’ve always wanted to meet you, Robin. I adore your work. My students love them, too, especially The Rose Lady’s Cat-Dog and Other Stories.”

“Yeah, uh, hi,” said Wake-Robin stupidly, not even bothering to correct him with his full first name. “So…why are you here? I mean—“ he smacked his head mentally, “—But of course you’re here! Just about time, too! I’ve always, you know, admired your uhm, style. So, uh…yeah, what are you doing here?” He felt silly, and ugly, and uncomfortable.

Janne walked a few paces nearer and stopped to look through the window with a smile. “I live here.”

“You do? Uh, that’s great!” Wake-Robin wanted to ask why he had never seen him before, until he remembered that he rarely went out of the house. If he knew that he would be meeting a fine man like Janne…not that it was reason enough, but still…

His editor tapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to talk about your next project. My son’s birthday and all. Well,” He tipped his hat and waved at them both, “Have a good day, gentlemen.”

As soon as the door closed, Wake-Robin exhaled and wished that he had the power to disappear into thin air. Especially when Janne Killian rested his eyes on him, which felt very uncomfortable indeed. He knew he could do it, if he wished hard enough, but he didn’t want to scare the other man.

“Um,” said Janne.

Wake-Robin stared. Janne Killian had a pert nose—how do you describe a pert nose? It was a good, fine, appropriate nose. Not normal, but certainly not abnormal-looking. Just beyond normal. Wake-Robin loved Beyond Normal Noses. He was sure; it was in his list of favorite noses. Top one in the list, actually.

“Um,” said Janne again, nervously, playing with the buttons of his coat. Wake-Robin stared at his long fingers, the way their tips pressed against the fabric. He felt his eyelids drop for some odd reason, but they were still set on those nipped fingernails…

“MISTER BREEN!!!”

“Wha—I—shit!” In his surprise, Wake-Robin took a step backward and knocked over a pile of books on his editor’s table, and they all came crashing towards the floor. Blushing furiously, he bent down to pick them up and berated himself for obsessing over noses and fingers and other body parts owned by the other man. And his hair.

“Hi,” said Janne, as soon as Wake-Robin was done. “So, let’s discuss your next project.”

“Right,” They both sat down on opposite armchairs, facing each other, and an uneasy silence followed.

Then…“You’re really Mister Wake-Robin Breen, huh?”

“What?” Wake-Robin imagined beating himself up with such an impolite tone. Why he was acting so clumsy and awkward, he never really understood.

“Oh, sorry,” Janne laughed. “I imagined you to be old, grey, with a beard and a beer-belly. You’re…not. Total opposite. And, well, you’re still young. And unmarried. Your editor told me.”

“Is that what my books suggest?”

“Quite. Or rather, what your name implies.”

Wake-Robin had the sudden urge to disown his nom de plume. “I’m not really Wake-Robin Breen. I mean, I am Wake-Robin Breen, but it’s not my real name. Y-you can call me Daman Kayne.”

“Now that’s better. Sounds sexy.”

Daman didn’t really know how to reply to that.

“I-I’ve always liked you, Mister Killian,” said Daman, and when Janne’s eyebrows rose in alarm he sputtered, “—LIKED! A-As in liked your works, I mean. You’ve captured my ideas so accurately. They’re just amazing. When my editor showed me the finished material of The Aster Fields, I was just…just blown-away.”

“Oh, but I only based my sketches on your work,” reasoned Janne, “It was an easy task; your imagery is clear and brilliant.”

“But still…they were beautiful. Yes, people appreciate my stories, but they don’t really understand them. When I ask them things about the book, I could tell that they have only touched the surface. Yet…y-your art understands the material. You don’t know how grateful I am that at least someone knows what the hell I’m talking about.”

“Aah. You wanted affirmation, then, so that you’d know if you’re not just some raving lunatic?”

Daman gave a sheepish smile. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”

They sat in sweet silence, grinning at each other.

“Tell me more about yourself,” urged Daman, locking his gaze on Janne and Janne alone. So Janne obliged; he told the author that he learned how to paint since he was five, under the care of his own father, and that he owned a small art school located inside his own home. His editor’s son was a student, and was the one who recommended Janne to be the official illustrator of Wake-Robin Breen’s bestsellers.

They talked and talked and talked until it was nine o’ clock in the evening, pausing only when they decided to eat dinner at a nearby restaurant.

“I’ll have a plate of spaghetti and a glass of iced tea, please,” Daman told the waiter. He looked at Janne, who seemed to be searching his pockets frantically while looking at the menu.

“I’ll have…I’ll have…a…a…glass of…water,” said Janne at last, looking flustered. He slouched on his seat. “…and a fortune cookie.”

“You like fortune cookies, Mister Killian?” asked Daman.

Janne Killian laughed, embarrassed. “Well, kind of,” he joked.

“Then we’ll have a whole bag of ‘em,” said Daman, and when Janne snapped out of his stupefied state the waiter was already gone.

“Seems like a lot of interesting things will happen to me,” He remarked a few minutes later, when both men were already cracking cookies open and reading their fortunes out loud, much to the disdain of the other customers. “Check this out, Mister Kayne: Beware a dark-haired man. He will tell you things about yourself that you wouldn’t want to hear. Prepare for it. Lucky number, seven.”

Daman Kayne was about to say that he was a sort-of dark-haired man, but was distracted by the fortune he picked up. “Mine says, ‘Gather up your courage and pack your important possessions: tomorrow, an adventure awaits you.’”

He looked at the piece of paper fondly and remembered his childhood. Usually, Daman Kayne would wake up to hear the chirping of the birds and a creepy scratching sound from the floor. He would look down, under his bed, and greet Obi a wonderful morning. That was what happened during tomorrows—there was the thrilling sense of adventure. Nowadays, he was constantly awakened by the prickling rays of the afternoon sun and a cellular phone filled with new messages from his editor.

Daman glanced up and noticed that Janne was looking at him, resting his chin on the back of his hand. He opened his mouth to apologize for spacing off, but it seemed like Janne was doing the same thing.

“Mister Kayne…do you believe in fortune cookies?”

The author popped one in his mouth. “Well, they’re delicious at least.”

Janne smiled again, and it fascinated Daman. “Well, do you believe that they tell the future?”

“I believe in only one destiny; that we’re going to die someday, and only god knows where the hell we’re going after that.”

They both laughed at the irony of his words. Daman felt nice—very nice, without a doubt— and it was the nicest since he discovered his powers.

“Death is the only inevitable,” said Janne. He picked up the papers one by one and arranged them neatly on one side. Daman found himself staring again. “But some say that there are…exceptions.”

Daman was about to ask what exactly but then his cellular phone suddenly vibrated from his pocket. Cursing inwardly, he pressed the phone against his ear.

It was his editor. “So Robin, have you settled everything?”

“It’s Wake-Robin,” corrected Daman crossly, miffed at the untimely call. “Settled what?”

“Have you discussed your seventh novel?”

Daman looked at the man seated across him, who was stifling his laughter. They had forgotten. “Uh, we’re getting there. T-to the main thing. We’ll probably need to talk tomorrow to, uh, really finish things.”

He stared at his cellular phone after his editor hung up, blushing. Janne placed his glass on the table and said, “Hmm…we should meet tomorrow to really finish things. For real, now. No procrastinating.”

“Right,” Daman stood up, gathering his coat and belongings. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“I had fun…Mister Kayne,” said Janne, sitting still while he toyed with the teaspoon in his glass. “So much fun in what seems like ages.”

“Same here, Mister Killian. Good night.”

And Daman Kayne left the restaurant.

He was seen that night skipping and singing and shouting good news to the trees and the dogs and a certain Ingvar, who followed him all the way to his house, just as happy for him. He almost ran over Ciara Lunnaire (who was too short for her age, anyway) and dared to kiss her brow before skipping off to the kitchen.

“I’m thirsty, Lune. I want a glass of water and…aha! A cookie!” He waved it in the air and gobbled it up greedily. Ciara Lunnaire gawked at him from the doorway. “Lord, it’s such a wonderful day today, isn’t it? I’m so sad that it’s almost over. But not to worry, it will be wonderful too, tomorrow. We’ll be meeting again.”

“Who is she?” inquired Ciara Lunnaire, walking over to the refrigerator to bring out a pitcher.

“Mister Janne Killian,” Daman breathed. He even liked the way his name sounded; it was…what was that term? Exquisite, he thought.

“That’s a he. I was asking for a she.”

“Huh? There’s no she.”

Ciara Lunnaire froze.

Daman Kayne glared at her, utterly scandalized. “What are you looking at? Like I said, I made a new friend. Mister Killian’s a great guy, really…very intelligent and kind. He’s the illustrator of my books, by the way. I met him during work.” Akia bounded in the kitchen, wagging her tail happily, and he embraced her with a one-arm hug.

“Aahhh…I remember now. He makes beautiful pictures,” said Ciara Lunnaire slowly, standing still. “And…you’re meeting him again?”

“Yes. We have to…really finish things,” Daman knelt on the floor and slid a few cookies in Akia’s food bowl. “My next project is quite a task, so we need to discuss the elements and share ideas and…you know, things like that.” Daman assumed that she wouldn’t understand, because Ciara Lunnaire was a rather ordinary woman. “I better sleep now; have to wake up early to meet him. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“I can see that,” Ciara Lunnaire pursed her lips and watched quietly as the man she considered her brother glided up the stairs in an obviously jolly mood.

She felt her stomach twist and turn, and it was fear, fear of the unknown.


***


Daman Kayne and Janne Killian never got around with the really finish things part; most of their working hours were spent chatting gaily about random things, the things they’ve just seen and heard, things that happened to other people. Gallons of tea and heaps of cookies and chips were consumed during their lengthy conversations, but both men were careful enough to chew properly before speaking (although Daman spit a few crumbs of chocolate chip when the other man cracked a hilarious joke).

Nobody brought up the need to discuss important matters, anyway. Even Wake-Robin Breen’s editor didn’t call; he was in a vacation with his family, and trusted that Daman and Janne would finish their tasks as soon as possible. He did not know how much they enjoyed each other’s presence—he wouldn’t have left if he did.

They talked in the office most of the time to project the image of respectable, always-busy professionals, but in some days they would walk around the town a bit. The two were secretly making fun of a group of stuck-up socialites that particular afternoon while feasting on ice cream (they were always hungry). However, the group made a quick turn and disappeared, so they had to talk of something else.

“What inspired you to draw, Mister Killian?” asked Daman at last while chewing the last portion of his ice cream cone.

“Well, my father taught me a lot of things, and he loved painting…it was one of his favorite hobbies. He was very encouraging, and showed me different brilliant paintings and photographs by underrated artists. The pictures weren’t grand, actually…they looked quite ordinary, boring and lifeless to others, but that was the beauty in them. They were able to illustrate the things that are essential but are taken for granted because of their simplicity.” Janne licked a few drops of pistachio-flavored ice cream from the corner of his lip, and Daman almost fell down to his knees in awe at the sight of a crimson tongue.

“I understand,” said Daman, and he truly did. “The little things are often overlooked. If only they knew how interesting they are. Like, I have a friend, he’s a shado—“ and he stopped himself.

Janne looked at him closely. “Yes?”

Daman stared. “What?”

“Is there something wrong, Mister Kayne? You stopped.”

“Uh, I did now, didn't I?” He always knew he was a bad liar. “Uhm, well, I think I forgot what I was supposed to say. Sorry.” He added the last bit to end the whole issue, but it sounded lame, even to his standards.

Janne was unperturbed. He had a reliable memory. “You said something about a friend, don’t you remember? Who is he? What is he?”

It was during that moment when Daman Kayne really wanted to show off his magical ability to erase memories. Especially memories that were detailed and intact, like the one Janne had. Apparently, he was too flustered to concentrate, and so he just blurted it out, without warning.

“A shadow.”

A woman beside them shrieked suddenly, and they looked; all her belongings were scattered on the floor. Someone must’ve crashed into her. But Daman wasn’t paying attention—he looked at his own shadow, his friend, and wondered why he felt so stung.

Ingvar gazed back with utmost sadness, until—

Daman felt a hand clasp on his arm, and he looked into Janne’s eyes. He was nodding fervently, with a smile on his face. “Being friends with your shadow. That’s a clever move. If you’re lost, he can guide you, he can give you precious information about your location. Yet you must take care of him—if he performs well, he may finally rest in peace.”

“I know that,” sighed Daman, “Ingvar—that’s his name—said that he enjoys being with me, though. Because I appreciate his efforts, unlike other people. Haha, he still threatened to leave me once, when I ignored his presence for two weeks. I don’t know what I’ll do without Ingvar, though. I’m too used to him…he’s all I’ve got.”

“You’ll have to let him go, soon.”

“Yeah, I’ll—“

And Daman Kayne looked at Janne Killian with unhidden surprise, read his very interested smile and heavy words, and finally remembered his vow. “Y-you…”

The other man looked deeply interested in the electric post, and they stood quietly for a few moments, admiring its electric post-ness. It was easy to take things for granted—flowers, shoes, skin, water—there was no need to think, to feel concern for them, because they were just there, seemingly limitless.

But there were certain objects or instances that were impossible to ignore, at least for people like Daman Kayne, and (maybe, just maybe)…

“Mister Killian,”

“Mmm?”

“Y-you’re…”

“Oh, Mister Kayne, you haven’t even introduced us yet.”

“Right, uhm…Ingvar, this is…is…”

Daman Kayne was immobilized by happiness, but he managed to choke out a request to be given the permission for a casual hug, to whisper blissfully in the other man’s ear, to grip him tight and inhale the intoxicating scent of his painted hair; and he explained that it was something he had vowed to do, and that dear god he was thankful because Janne Killian smelled great, and it was more than what he wished for.

Their bodies barred the light of the orange sun; soon the shadow people appeared on the pavement and were united, like two lost spirits pressing close in distorted shapes, moving noisily, speaking without voices.