7 PM. Pool side. Somewhere in a suburb of a modern metropolis, with enough cars and airplanes to dodge the proliferating skyscrapers, two beautiful women sit on patio chairs in a backyard, smoking slims and reminiscing of times long gone and of those to come. The city is bordered by mountains and the ocean.
One of them, a brunette with green eyes, is wearing a soft, red dress. Her lips are thin and pale red. Her skin has a summer glow. Her companion, a blonde with green eyes, wearing a turquoise dress and lipstick the shade of raspberries.
‘Isn’t it strange how different everything seems and yet, how it all stays the same? How the world turns but we don’t?’ the woman in the red dress asks while slowly exhaling a white drag of burnt tobacco.
‘Even so, things fall into place. Just like they do in dreams,’ her friend replies, looking at the transparent pool which at that time in the day was a darker blue.
‘Just like they do in dreams,’ the woman in the red dress repeats with a smile. A warm breeze burnt some of the tobacco, wasting a drag. The ashes spread in the summer wind, dissolving into nothing.
Another glass of cold white wine.
Another drag from the cigarette.
Looking into the line of horizon, where there is nothing but the dimming sky, placing her left leg on the right one and softly moving her turquoise summer dress, the blonde says:
‘I like the dusk. It makes me dream of a better tomorrow. In what sense better, I do not know. I cannot express it in words – exact, certain, concrete. But it does exist. Although, it never comes: the dream ends, and it is still today, again and again. And I smoke and drink to pass the time in a loop that goes on forever and ever.’
‘It is the red in the sky that makes you feel that way; melancholic for something that never was. There are oceans between us and them, between here and there, now and then. Oceans of nothingness’, her companion replies while looking at her cigarette burning out in the ashtray.
Silence: both watch the first astral points peer through the sunset veil, in the area of the sky in which they grey blended into a soft white-blue. The moon is there too, pale and almost transparent, then, behind it, a few dots barely visible of pulsating light. Half an hour has passed and neither of them have said anything.
‘Somewhere within, that tomorrow exists. Not between the stars,’ the blonde whispers, starting a cigarette with a soft puff. Her friend looks at her and smiles:
‘You can get lost, down there, within. It’s just one way and that way always disappears into something we cannot explain: beyond the edge, into abstractions, emotions, images without shape and sound.’
‘True. But isn’t that home? When all around you seems alien and the sunsets and sunrises no longer announce a linear existence, the collapse of aesthetics, the questions about questions, everything buries in abstractions, emotions and those shapeless, silent images, deep within.’
A few kilometres away, a man dressed in a black suit, with an unbuttoned white shirt, is standing on a roof looking at the rolling ball of red fire being swallowed up by the night. His hair is black and well kept. His eyes are like roasted coffee and his lips like dark cherries. Around him, the city is busier still, but getting quieter: the death of the day is a time to calm the raging run of progress. Machines and flesh pause their self-consuming quest towards tomorrow, realising that the future never really comes: it is only today, and it is 8PM in the flat circle.
The two women are now dancing around the pool. The red and turquoise dresses blend together, swirling and floating in the calm summertime air. There is no music playing, but they can hear the singing from thousands of years long vanished, the music of a world of higher powers and simplicity.
‘Did you hear? God’s dead,’ the brunette utters as they move on the music.
‘Baby that’s alright with me: life imitates art,’ the blonde replies.
‘You got that medicine I need,’ the brunette continues.
‘Dope and wine,’ her friend answers. They both smile, closing their eyes as they move above the pool.
The final rays, pink and bright, blast the large clouds across the sky in an intense spectacle of colours. The metropolis is totally silent. The clocks have stopped at 8:23 PM. Time has disintegrated into cigarette smoke.
The man is still looking where the sun’s final remains are on full display on the night sky.
Lysergic acid diethylamide.
From the poolside, where the women are dancing, two white swans fly into the horizon, towards the tomorrow that never comes.