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The inane god of twilight, bored, motionless, basks under the pearl-colored, delightfully cold sun of the solar system we call Kepler 11 and they name "Vrelkdskts," unimaginably far from us in the constellation we have named "Swan" and which they, the inhabitants of those worlds, for one of those coincidences that can happen, call it the same, except that for us the swan is a splendid water bird while for them, "Swan" means "Our-Home-But-Only-For-The-Moment-Then-We-Will-See-If-We-Migrate-En-Mass-Or-Only-A-Couple-Of-Millions-Of-Individually-Selected-Based-On-Summary-Criteria-Of-Caste."
The god yawns from one of the orifices that we would barely define as a "mouth" while with the other, next to the first, he emits sounds of satisfaction, quenching himself on Dante's verses, yes, Dante's verses, he listens to from the confident voice of his favorite, the very young and scholarly pale ephebe, whom he carelessly strokes the thigh, one of the three, hairless and very white, too, enjoying the trophic transumptio in the statement and greedily feasting on the pars proemialis, waiting for poetic as well as phonetic developments that further provoke that itch in his spinal ganglia heralding the predisposition to postprandial intercourse with his young cinedus.
Eating slowly, almost scientifically, the fruit of the strandovinia, the sublevel muddy layer where the bonxifreuui grow, hairless and very sweet, the god adds: "To please me, my dear, you could just season your statement with an appropriate background, what's it called again?... music, yes, that thing that comes from the third planet of Sol, that warm rock inhabited by those stupid quarrels... How does such a backward race produce verses like this and... music, yes, in short, that strange, alienating, ensemble of air vibrations that produce... sounds... right? That's it, right?"
The young ephebe, sitting on a composition of petrified algae, is always amazed that a god, well, a god who should know everything and nothing should escape him, is so ignorant as to know nothing of a race of living and sentient beings that, yes, exist at an enormous distance from them but who, after all, are studied, albeit little, in some of the top universities not only on Kepler but as far as Aldebaran and even by those arrogant unicellular beings of Rigel IV, who think they know everything and yet ignore, what do I know, anything about the shale rocks that on Imbert XI the gigantic inhabitants, the Kranthtfrotvitpybxcvdherftkzoi, use as food, as gluttonous as they are whining when it comes, then, to expel the stony remains of what was assimilated before.
"Yes, Almighty, it's called Music and, indeed, if you want to reduce everything to the bare essentials, indeed it is sounds, therefore vibrations of the air surrounding the Vrukkd, the Humans, as they define themselves, who, as primitive, brawling, and illogical as they are, bask in it, in Music, which we are able to reproduce with our faculties since, for us, their 'air' does not exist, and I'd say fortunately...
We captured the waves by chance, while studying the clascovian life forms of the solar system of Balstichov, those useless architects of buildings constructed with their own feces... It seems to me that this Music, here, is to your liking, here, as it seems you also enjoy the poetic verses of one of those Humans who rises above the others as few of their kind do..."
"Yes, indeed..." The god interrupted him. "...What's his name, anyway, he has an unpronounceable name... Zdanz..."
"Dante, Omniscient, Dantealighieri..." The young man responds, raising to the sky two pairs of eyes out of the three he has, organs which only partially serve his race for seeing and which they also use to set the bowls on the table for dining.
"And this... music... well, who makes it, who emits it, in short? And what's it called?"
With enthusiasm, the young concubine exclaims: "Djordjomorodderr, he is called, a Vrukkd who uses, well, I don't know how to tell you... uses synthesizers, Omniscient, he uses them to emit the harmonious and engaging sounds you like so much..."
The god, as if awakened from the torpor that the cold sun caused him, removes his hand from the thigh and jumps up. "What? This wonderful sensation comes from... from... from synthesizers? But how do they make it with instruments intended for cooking the food that nourish us? They play kitchen tools? What kind of people are these... Humans, you say, what kind of primitive and incoherent people are they if they end up using kitchen means for... for..."
The god turns yellowish, a sign that, more than angry or indignant, he is confused to the maximum extent.
"And yet..." He adds, adjusting his ring-adorned hand with sapphires from Altair II and jade from Kraskey VI on the ephebe's thigh, this time stroking it gently, a sign that soon he would instruct the young lover to prepare for coitus. "And yet the effect is indescribably beautiful, I don't even know why, but it's... beautiful, here.
And to think that, being what I am, I should know everything and understand everything... but... well, here... Put those aforementioned sounds on again while I proceed to possess you, my young friend... they provoke internal movements that rightfully dispose me to coitus..."
The young ephebe positions himself sideways, letting the divine take him, already knowing that the whole thing will last no more than a handful of seconds, fortunately, a few seconds of absolute boredom that the boy passes thinking of the crimson god of Wandering Entropy who, secretly, occupies his heart and also all his orifices, and who is of a beauty and sexual power enormously greater than that Divinity who, in the hierarchical scale, stands above him but, on the um, penetrating scale, is not even classifiable near his secret lover.
While letting the master have his way, he emits those sounds the god loves so much: "Fromirrciueternitiiiii, dezzuersciteicsmiiiii, fromirrciueternitiii uidlovuidlovuidlovvvv..."
The god finishes his miserable performance and then, sighing, asks him: "But what do those things mean that... that... you sing, they say, right?"
"My master," replies the ephebe, adjusting the shiny cadmium skirt that the god had moved to possess him and which he had irreparably soiled with grkyyuhssyt, how disgusting.
"The words tell of a human who loves a female human and says that she leads him to eternity..."
The god laughs loudly and does so from the underarm orifice, a sign that he really is amused... "But how..." He says. "How can a representative of not only an inferior but also extremely limited race in terms of life expectancy, who live at best fifteen thousand of our years, announce to a female of his ignoble race that she leads him to eternity?
Fromiiiirrciuueetternittiiiiii... but, really, for the pineal gland of the great Askarzksks, compared to the concepts of that... Danz... Dante, there's an abyss... What a despicable race, though, one looking for eternity in his female and another telling of descents to hell and ascents to heaven... But the result of such delirium is... in short, it's beautiful, really beautiful..."
The god stands up, rising to his full thirty-two centimeters of height, and with one hand cleans the miserable excretory-sexual appendage while with the other two he adjusts his rings and the bicentennial sandstone jerkin. Then he climbs onto the glassy hippocampus with calcareous appendages that awaits nearby, lazily grazing on a thin deciduous of boiling slate, then rides it with excessive effort and goes away, into the darkness of the now-made day, smiling at the thought that someone, somewhere in the Universe, is, can you believe it?, using a synthesizer not to cook delicious delicacies based on marmities but to emit variably modulated sound waves... Can you believe it?
The cinedos, knowing now that he has the whole day to himself, plans to discreetly contact the crimson god occupying his entire heart and, often, part of his intestines, and head to the nearby village to purchase some precious stones to place on his chest while getting ready to welcome the power of the god, his secret lover, as beautiful as he is muscular, with his forty-five centimeters of height and his phyllosilicate mane, very beautiful and wavy.
He makes up one of the two faces, the day one, with very precious powdered limestone extracts, which he knows can provoke in his secret lover, his beloved, a wild libido, a little sweet and a little violent, which will procure him moments of... of... eternity, yes, just like that Vrukkd, that human, that Djordjomorroderr, sang, what a name...
"Fromirrciueternitiiiii, dezzuersciteicsmiiiii..." he softly sings, walking away on the path dotted with slimy but beautiful, brown and gray climbing plants.
"Frommiirrciueternittiiiiiiiii..."
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