The room, low in lighting, spare in furnishing, enclosed by walls, floor and ceiling painted in cosmic fantasies, existing as a box within boxes, surrounded on all dimensions. Not so much a door as a semi-permeable veil that could, with an intense act of will, be penetrated to take in vast kaleidoscopic tellings of tales, all sides and all seasons envisioned in an eternal play.
Officer Mirsky had a powerful hate on for them witchy folk. “Always messing with my head, telling me to do things. And not nice things, either.” They weren’t telling him to find himself some sweet young thang, fuck her every which way to exhaustion, cutting her throat when he was ready, then chopping her body into handy sized bits for easy disposal. They never told him how to get away with such wholesome activity neither. They just wanted him to be happy to serve their fine selves. “Grateful I should be that they keep commerce running ever so smoothly, plenty of profit for all so long as well all know our place. Think they have a right to act all superior to normal folks who leave each other’s minds alone and get by on codes of unmentioned rules that everybody knows. Keep yourself to yourself, fit in, join the crowd and take what you can when no one of any importance is looking. If you’re really swift, become someone of importance by stealing big and making the right moves. This forced cooperation is for migrating birds, not human beings, each man king of all he can compile.
Don’t look at me like that, you witchy folk, all superior, knowing, like I don’t count ’cause you’re better than me. You’re not better than anybody. You’re certainly not better than everybody. We can democratically eject you. Once we get you out of our minds.”
Tune in for more; tune out for internal reflection.