The large studio metal door listless complains when opening. It’s possible to glimpse the long, dark hallway studded with ghosts. We look each other; there is a soft reminiscent smile on our lips. The steps echoes resound as we walk and the lights flash while we wake up them one by one. The huge studio lights, yawning, with the fluorescent glare of neons. In the canvas, our angels and demons slowly stretches. Tired bodies shed their coats and the arctic breath of a sleepless Madrid slips through the door that gives access to the roof terrace. The first cigarette tastes like glory.
I look to the south in my daily ritual, and smile while I let White-Haired and Stains continue saying goodbye to the Moon of Dawn. Something magical has happened. Our glances know. Our eyes reflect it, in our pupils has been recorded.
It’ve been some dizzying days away from our usual routine. Exhausting, full agenda, waiting for calls, talks, acts and protocols; necessary price to pay in this our strange craft of making demons. However, it was also the first time we have been aware, in flesh, on skin, of the impact of what we do. We do it because we do it, because we can’t not do it. It is the best therapy for our madness… but many are following what we do, expecting what we do, encourage us to pursue, rekindle the embers of this fire, usually full of vanity, and in our case only fuels the fire of purification.
We look eachother again. There’re barely words. There are still smiles… There is a serene calm throbbing in caress around us. It’s like a bridal gown in a closet open to the public. It’s like the echo of a woman’s fragrance that sticks in the brain. White-Haired knows now, with absolute certainty while lighting the second cigarette, that the world awaits his painted apocalypse of Luz. Yet we wonder if they are ready for the end is coming, but no doubt they want us to tell them. Stains is conscious while the accumulated fatigue makes him to rub his eyes, that his texture and viscera recipe is the secret ingredient that makes the difference. That there are insomniacs like us hooked (like us) to the culinary lab of dreams and nightmares where angels who are not angels and demons who were angels play a game started eons ago. And this Mad Hatter has seen Alice through the looking-glass. Maybe she wants me to stay… perhaps White-Haired was always right and I’m here (and no other) because she always wanted. Because I cannot escape my destiny and my destiny is to write her, throbbing her, dream her and do not dream her; thet she dreams of me and not only dream of me. My reasonable doubts vanish in a blink. I’m part of this miracle because I can’t not be. I have been chosen. My number has been said.
Stolen the names, brought back to life the canvas asleep for years, opened the box of a Pandora of red hair and eager sex hear we listen the heavy thump of the door that locks us back into our factory of monsters. Luz winks at us the last unfinished sketch. A legion of pigments and brushes to stand to attention to our path. The words still unspoken kiss us on the lips with poisonous kisses.
Each one is in his place: there’re dates, destinations (Barcelona, Angouleme, Lucca, Mexico, San Diego…), Swords of Damokles already over our heads. The wheel, from today, is unstoppable, impatient, inexorable.
We took up arms. A final look of ferocity.