bleedingworlds (bleedingworlds) wrote,

Over fields lit by an orange tinted glow, mystics perform an ancient ritual. One ends up flying up cross-legged over the fields. I am floating suspended over the fields, and the sight of him makes me very uneasy for some reason. He comes constantly towards me, nonetheless, while I float around by moving the air, trying to get away but always moving closer. I have become part of the ritual. He tells me that in order for me to fly better, I have to spread three fingers out and divide the air like a top. He says this while his eyes and legs are crossed.
Back at his hut (also lit by an orange-reddish glow, and Turkish carpets), he lets me read an ancient book on flying rituals on his bed, aside a book of Mucha art (o_o). The book is huge but thin, with a reddish worn cover. 


In an apartment, with the friend who owns it. She talks. The fire on the stove turns on, and dances around in the figures of people. Each flame is a person. One steps gingerly out and rubs his sides, walking towards the table. My friend cries out that he will die outside the stove, and the only way to save him would be to pour water over him. This makes sense to me at the time...
Tags: fire, mystics, the art of flying
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