Quīnque

"Uhnn?"

He wanted to be sure if he was alive or not. Probably it was an illusion or reality. He didn't know what to believe anymore.

A part of him told him that twas a clone of himself. Another part maintained that twas him but in another figment of imagination.

He tried in vain to balance his contention. That shouldn't be in isolation. He was beginning to be the byproduct of doubts and he knew it.

Twasnt anything so bad or relegated to dimwittedness. What was he even thinking about? The question was, was he really dead or alive.

Like in the fantasy? Was it a second death and resurrection? Was it possible for him to die in fantasy? He thought that there were rusty rules knitted at its tail. He couldn't really be sure.

But he needed to be sure. He raised his right hand firstly, it was alive. Then to his left, also alive. Delved he to the right leg, alive.

Then to the left, also alive. He tried all the parts of his body out. All were working just fine. All were intact. He could say that again.

But he was yet skeptical. His memory was not justified yet. Probably an alakazam was playing trick on his mental Ken. He was merely pruning guesses.

His mental Ken tossed an apt idea to him. It seemed familiar. He of course had felt it sometimes ago, though he wasn't sure what that meant.

He let the instinct savor the aroma and leased rage on the latter. Of course he was hit by Leviathan.

Upon the leaving of Poseidon, Leviathan had hit him from behind. He knew that. Not knew! He had felt it and twas more than real.

The pain had registered in his consciousness. He was not going to jilt the feeling. The feeling was just as real as the malady he was caught in. He didn't know what was happening to him.

Everything was happening so quickly to him, and it pained him that he was a pawn to all. It had started at the shore of a glass-like sea.

Then he had gone into what looked like an eerie forest. Perhaps puked by the gaunt glottis of a hidden Utopia.

He had eaten a fruit which had lent his instinct a reason to prune some hoisted hymn.

During the pruning of croons, he had had a voice or sassy sound from the sea. He had run there to see a great serpent and a psycho who called himself Poseidon.

Ah! And the Leviathan had been hungry that Poseidon would feed him with twenty-two men of his makes.

And Poseidon had left Leviathan to take care of him and boom! Leviathan had kicked him from behind. Twas a ferocious blow.

He had succumbed to gloom at that. But he had opened his eyes to meet himself where he couldn't discern.

Tell him, what alakazam was greater than that? And then he had been trying to feel parts of his body. He looked up.

He hadn't been tied, but to him, it seemed as though he had. There was actually noting spared for him to think anymore.

He looked up and met the eerie eyes of Leviathan. He didn't know what to make of them. There were red and basked in what was tantamount to sulphur.

If he was right, that was what he would say. Or probably what his instinct had leased on him.

When he had read about the Leviathan, the ride of Poseidon from the scribblings of Myclops, he had only made a dragon of its form.

That was all he had been able to make of it. How was it then his fault? When he had written about it in his poems, also he had described a dragon.

But what he had seen was defected in the portrayals he had read and written. He would burn the crazy poems he had written if he gained his chance to return to Zylog.

There was nothing of great consequence he could savor or make of the world of fantasy.

He didn't know what he could had done in the forest if the crazy had not come to intrude his mercy. He thought Poseidon to be a psychopath.

He moved a little bit. He was on his elbows. He was struggling to stand. He felt pulpy pangs pruning rhythms within him. He didn't know what was happening.

Probably he did know but wouldn't cowtow. He probably was making pawn of time or vice versa. He moved again, he wanted to rest his back on the wall. He had no idea what name that was called.

There probably was another name it was called in the world of fantasy. He didn't care. He was only conscious of his movement because he didn't want to offend the creature which already looked offended.

Even if he made the progress of winning over the mercy of the Leviathan, he was sure that he wouldn't be able to discern its joy from happiness.

He wouldn't be able to know when the creature or feed to stupor by inky ire. It was just some extension of chaos.

He rested his back finally on the wall, as the creature dangled its tail from distance. He was glad that there were quite far from one another, else one would belatedly inconvenience the other.

Of course he knew that he was the one who would be inconvenienced. Who else was it supposed to be?

He was in a hall. At least that was what he would call it. A hall. It was empty and very large.

That was why he could mind his business and the Leviathan could do its as well. He left his acumen to suppress and rehearse all forms of its rage.

Then sanity was supplanted. Truthfully speaking, there was no water in the hall. How possible? They matter-of-factly were in the depth of the water.

How would there be a house therein where there was no trace or tongue of wave. Not even a drop.

A house under the death of the sea, yet no water in the house? Well, nothing was impossible in the world of fantasy.

There had been a sea which was like a glass and without waves. There would be more apt absurdities. He wasn't sure of what to think.

Then he heard some ferocious banging at all the sixteen doors of the hall. He wanted to pee in his hood. The banging was not friendly.

And if the act continued, all the doors would come flying into the hall. He closed his eyes or consciousness.

Then the Leviathan arose in full length and roared! He obviously was not having a good time!