Chapter 5 (Cont.)
Around that time I was close to where I was to be close to. The symbols of bokeh had turned macroscopic. Bright orange, teal, turquoise. And others such. I was locking into it. Fatetethered. Woodiness rumple from underneath, unfurls the kitten of a balcony. Within my sight now: Les huits. One of the few bars in Tatterstown that favoured old school interior designs over pragmatic future. Even ancient in the scale of old world history, there used to be places called inns throughout the medieval world. Hearths and bards. Warm ale to rinse your respiration. Warmeverfurrying threads to mend the roadtoils. Travelers would visit them. Excuse me do you have a room for the night? Of course you do. Such a big inn. Brighton Coven. In the middle of nowhere. Not nowhere. The pastures and its grottos are in abundance. Wildlife moving through. Unbothered and unbothering. Just like the Gods had intended. Miss, how much for a room? Fine, I'll take it thank you! I stopped when I was in front of Les huits. Took a few moments to admire the ornate package. Marketing theorists would be proud. It's not just me speaking from my own expertise in field. I've been recently promoted to senior marketing coordinator at Datamangle Inc. They don't handle bars but technology. Whatever. The simple motive remains the same. Let the world know you possess. Entice the world. I know I'm not the only one with preference for old world aesthetics. I'm a regular at Les huits. There are many people there all the time. Oh would you look at the door! Fine embellishments. Not a pint of overreach. The perfect posterior. Ladies and gentlemen, the pints are riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from the swerve of the shore to the bends of the bay. This door is the poster. Not of debauchery or irresponsibility. But respite. Pints of design on the door perfumed of anxiety relinquishes. I imagine some were drowning their sorrows beyond that gate. As usual with mankind. Why did Gods embed the phenomenon of alcoholisation? Gods said, oh you grains and grapes. Your purpose is not merely carbohydrates. You are also to bear the responsibility of the people who are stuck in their miseries facilitated by your ingestion— the carbohydrates. The grains and grapes listened. They developed affinity for hydroxyls. The crushed grapes made their marks through cascaded systems: "Behold! Already on long parades, the crows anoint the statues with their dirts. And the souls, being lonely fly, towards your cheery chariots, to the skies". I was missing the tactility of a handle, a twist and a push, a push and a kinetic. Open! The threshold broadened and further enticed into its mysteries. The mysterious clarity of love. But that whole physicality had to be suppressed I assume. Tatterstown authority has given its residents and businesses the freedom to interior designs it considers "deviant and/or pastiche" even though it ceaselessly encourages its subjects to embrace new world sensibilities. But the law said automated doors must be used everywhere because beyond technical conventions, the central matrix intelligence assessed the credibility of the one standing before a door. Non-citizens are not allowed in interiors around the main city. They have all taken their interiority to the external worlds of the outskirts. Those regions are so outside of the main city that they don't even feel like parts of Tatterstown even though they share the same protective matrix. They are parts of the city, they are not parts of the legislature. A non-citizen, in my place right now, would continue to look at the ornate door. There was no knob to turn. No ID to let the door know of someone's presence. What can you do? The door scans me instantaneously and upholds its mysteries as I head inside.
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Diegetic Annals I / সংহতি