On a cold autumn evening close to the time of the setting of the sun, a somber day is nearing its end. The entire sky is overcast with ominous grey clouds, and a chilling breeze flows over the hills from the north. The sun is nothing more than a small bright spot in the firmament of the west. A few trees, naked of foliage, sparsely dot the level plains. The grass is muddy and spotted with puddles from the rains of the past, leaving the surface spongy to the step. Like soldiers at ceremony, many granite monoliths stand at attention in all directions across the pattern of the land. A distant rumble of thunder from unknown direction, verifying the coming of showers, carries itself through a small gathering of people. There are twelve of them, dressed in fine tailored black clothing. They stand around a deep hole in the ground, with a mound of earth at their backs. A bottled silence washes the scene with dark, not a single word muttered over the still. The women have veils drawn over their faces, and their long coats whip against their legs from the escalating winds. A few can be seen to have tears rounding their cheeks. The men, with suirts and dark ties, stand nearby with comforting grips on their neighbors' shoulders as they hold closed their coats against the chill. Their concerned expressions hold doubt and confusion as they sway with a rhythemof mourning, communicating to one another without words. The mood they all share can be seen and felt in the air about them. They spend much time thinking, and their silence adds to the fact no one can believe, no one can explain. Their forms cast gloom in the shape of shadow on the grass before them. With a cacophony of sound, lightning bathes the land in a brilliant white light, and in the distant west a dim figure appears.

It is a boy of about eighteen years of age, one whose presence goes unnoticed. He stands nearly two meters in height, with broad shoulders and a massive build. Against a tree he leans, a tall dead oak many times his age. His head is shrouded in darkness under the hood of his jacket. He removes a pouch of tobacco and papers, rolls a cigarette, and lights it with the flick of a wooden match. He draws heavily from it, exhales, and begins to walk slowly toward the others. His long steps leave deep footprints in the mud as he strides over the puddles, and his combat boots become caked with red mud. A thin stream of blue smoke trails away from the cigarette in his gloved hand as his arm swings by his side. Torn and dirty jeans cover his legs, and their soft whisper accompanies the chiming of the chains and rings of his belt as he walks. Tied around his waist is an ancient flannel shirt, whose dark red and black plaid patterns dance with the dreary song of his motion. He clutches his tattered military jacket close to his body as it flaps frantically in the high winds, to keep out the cold; and pulls deeply from his cigarette. None of the others look up as he arrives, as if they do not see or hear him. He stops at the foot of a long, splendidly polished black casket that hangs suspended just above the hole in the earth. Its sides have bright chrome bars, and at its head aqre many colorful flowers. He looks down at the coffin, takes one last drag and tosses his cigarette into the grave. Thunder booms across the sky, and a few drops of rain fall on his hood. The people pull out their umbrellas to shield themselves from the coming storm. The boy steps up to the grave, kneels and places a small piece of yellow parchment atop the casket. Again from the depths of the storm above, lightning and thunder scream. More tears and crying ensue, and an aura of life lost with the reality of death hangs above them like the dark clouds and the brewing storm. The torrent of rain now falls unceasingly upon the funeral like the flow of their tears, and the drops of water cause the ink on the parchment to bleed and flow down over the casket. Not a single person acknowledges the boy, as if he were not there, for their gazes do not stray toward him. The sorrow they feel throws a dark shadow upon the young man that he absorbs like a dry sponge. Slowly they begin to leave, but they all stare longingly toward the grave with much sadness. The boy closes himself down in a fetal position as they go, but they do not notice. As the peaople pass by the old oak tree, the parchment whips off the casket in the wind and lands at the feet of one of the departing men. He picks it up, and the barely legible words read, "I JUST DON'T KNOW WHY." He looks back over his shoulder at the grave and wonders for a few moments, but turns to leave once more.

Later, as twilight lingers after the sun sets, the boy still kneels before the grave. The casket has been lowered and the dirt and mud piled in over it. The storm stops eventually, leaving on the sound of the wind as his company; but the gloom as not been lifted. The boy stares at the newly erected gravestone. He prepares another smoke and draws back the hood of his coat. His hair hangs long down his face, partly obscuring his hard, chiseled features. His deep set blue eyes reveal his sadness and regret. His weeping caused his eyeliner to run and leave darks streaks across his cheeks, but his cries have ceased. For a moment, all seems at peace. He takes another drag, and looks at his arms. Each is cut from wrist to elbow, and bleed incessantly. He presses his face into his hands and shivers. A small break in the clouds overhead allows moonlight to fall upon the lonely boy. He looks up at the moon, and in a broken and pitiful voice says, "Whatever have I done, my precious Luna? Perhaps now I may visit you at long last, if you do not send me away for my crime." He draws again from his cigarette. "For the reasons, I have no answer, I do not know why I did what I did, but there is no going back. No one that I cared for, or that I loved, or even those I have never met will know, simply because I was too arrogant to tell anyone about my problems." He looks back at his gravestone and smokes a little more. "What will become of those people? I will never know now, and I don't know whether or not I feel sorow, but I do feel the pain." He begins to weep once more. The rains come again as the boy lays down over the burial place and sinks into the mud. The forboding melody of the rain upon the headstone echoes the epitath:

On this a fine Saturday evening, at the conclusion of a long quest to find himself and inspiration for LEVENDIS: a transcendental experience. In his travels he discovered the art of falconry: the art of hunting with birds of prey. The way the energy flowed freely and effortlessly from the very being of these mighty and majestic flying predators occupied his very soul for the better part of an eternity. Onward and outward from the simple plains into the heart of the city and marketplace that is best described as mind numbing he descended; into a realm of mischeif and the realization of the sad poet. Here he witnessed the caress and cuddling of mistresses of the Gypsie fairy land carpet ride, who wooed him with their shifting, sliding, oozing mounds of transcendental flesh into the wounds of succulent sex. His eyes, sullen and confused, then lay upon witness of a woman. This woman, by the name of April she is called, has taken it into self to hold back her deep hearted, true desires, where she wanted only to beat with the whip all the moving, overwhelming energy of existence from his beckining buttock. He transcended this subserviant continuum only to come back and give to her his very essence of soul, his reason for being on this mother earth in a totem drawing he created and delivered to her to the price of a simple, single touch of the flesh of the lips for a moments longing and an eternity of pleasurable warmth and desire in but a kiss.

You cannot throw a falcon quite the same way you throw a knife!

Levendis is sad today for his life has taken a turn since his short visit to this distant land of Scarborough. His folley is his regret. He feels as though his lament is his own doing, but it is only life without the transcendental experience. He retains his vision of life there, but does not travel the way of mind that surpassed normal thought. This depression following the transcendental experience is common and it does eventually pass, but not before drastic action of thought persists for awhile. Levendis misses his maiden flower April the torture woman that captured his very soul. She had a way of walking and talking that has caused levendis to remember every curve, every line and shape of her form of expression. Her driven craving for ravenous sex was not hidden from his eyes, for she taunted him in every concievable subliminal fashion. She stared longingly into his eyes at every opportunity she had, and he returned her glances with unmistakable desire. The unremarkable feelings he has this day compare in no way to his passion the day before for this woman April. He remembers her and will keep a part of her in his mind for he may one day return to her land. This next time though, he will have her for a night and enjoy her in the only way he can. She will be one with him, as he will share in her his desire.

TUESDAY - VALLEY OF FIRES Levendis strokes his dreams away, and awakens to the song of flying insects and the striking heat of the morning sun. He camped here in this Valley of Fires the night before without having seen it first as anything but a grey, lumpy landscape, but his eyes this morning did witness a sight that bewildered him and caused him to sigh in utter astonishment at the beauty that this desert holds. Before his eyes lay distant, rocky, sparsely vegetated mountains, that ring the valley desert like enormous cavern walls, with the cloudy firmament as a cavern ceiling. At his feet lay the desert floor, with cactus, bush and other unfamiliar plants between sandy boulders interspersed with black volcanic rock; the sight of which caused immense emotional outpouring from levendis, who gaped at his surroundings. He climbed the nearest rocky peak; to see what wonders lay in store at higher elevations. To this poet, the essense of every careful attempt to preserve this type of beauty has been intensified and elevated by the breathtaking landscape that lay serenely all about him. The sun rise casually caries levendis away from his reverie and his journey continues anew with heat on his back and dust about his heals.

WEDNESDAY - CIBOLA Rain falls about his body like so many insects that crawl on his skin, and levendis experiences the solemn beauty of a mountain rain shower during a partial eclipse of the moon. This forest of Cibola that covers the mountainside in every direction causes him to see, forces him to realize the ever-present beauty and wonder that nature has to offer for all to witness and be captivated by. His journeys and travels take him far from civilization, but he realizes that his vision must be shared by others, so he prepares to play host to another willing soul for him to guide through the reality of the clever movements that nature gives him.

NIGHT at the DESCENT OF MAN - levendis strolls humbly along, finding pleasure in his humble surroundings; with their shops and stores catering to the sort of he, levendis found what he had hoped.

TUESDAY -> Late it is... Levendis calms himself by writing pleasant words about pleasant thoughts and pleasant ideas, and again he transcends into a realm of pleasant happiness. His close friend Angie, a fair maiden with whom he shared the pleasant herb. We take what we can get.