The chilly wind blowing over was trying to sow consciousness in his darkness engulfed body. To
wake him up was a war between the wind and the darkness –– in which wind was seeming to
win. His legs twitched, a spasm of stress forming over his half visible face. He tried to gaze
around without changing his posture, nothing was visible.
Where am I?, he asked himself, forcing his body up.
“Jeannie…Jeannie!” he yelled brushing of the soil on his right side of the face.
Suddenly, a light flashed on his face, a yellowish light, which killed the remaining bit of
unconsciousness which was looming over him. The yellow light flashed, now here, now there,
like a puppy wandering around.
“Jeannie,….,Jeannie!” he shouted again, “I have kept hell’s maid.”
The yellow light was elucidating the place, one glimpse at a time. A mental image formed in his
mind of a forest – of trees, of branches, of soil — by which he was surrounded.
“Only The Devil can tell where am I?” he said looking upwards gazing at the sole star.
He began following the direction in which the yellowish light was coming. Walking, with the
support of trees, a strange feeling came over him. The trees felt different to his hand.
“Am I drunk?” striding forward, he asked himself.
“No..no.. I can’t be…since Alyona left me for that drunkard George Alkolovich, I have not even
looked at any drink.I can drink blood, but not liquor, no sir,” he mumbled, still briskly walking.
“What kind of wood these trees have?” Befuddled, he kept moving and kept touching one after another.
A shower of light presented itself, and the forest seemed to end. Benches were placed every few
meters, the roads were clean as though one could not see a single leave on it.
“Oh! Thank Dear Lord!” he sighed.
As he was crossing the last of the trees of the forest, a sudden outburst of music took place — the music was none other than of Johann Sebastian’s Christmas Oratorio.The music expelled him forward, like wind does to a piece of paper. He fell on the ground near the electric bluish bench.
He saw the trees dwindling and dangling as if they were creating the music. Every beat of the
music and every sight of the musician trees filled his heart with inexplicable horror.
He gathered himself up and began running during which he noticed that the roads also vibrated with the musical rhythm.
A car came streaming through the tunnel. He waved his hands exactly between the road in order to stop the car.The car stopped, though it looked to him that it was lewd with an angry contour.
The car was decorated with symbols of electric wires, and a huge symbol of zero with one on its
top. A woman came out of the car.
“Who are you?”
“Help me…madame..please help me,” he cried, “I seemed to be lost, someone possibly had me
kidnapped.”
“But I am asking you: What is your name? Where are you from?” The woman said irritatingly.
Her voice was not like a normal woman voice, as if it’s been produced from tin rather than from
tissues.
“Samuel Myers…Potmond..13th street, Downtown East.”

“Ah! I understand,” the woman said in a sharp gaze terrifying Myers, “You are one of those….”
“One of what? Madame,” said he, “I clearly have been lost, most possibly kidnapped…I am a
Nobel laureate, a chemist, Madame…I am not possibly ‘those’…I beg you to take me to a police
station.”
At this point of time, the world-renowned chemist’s eyes took a full glimpse of the woman — she was dressed in a black suit which seemed to be intertwined with her skin, and only her neck and face’s skin was visible. Her hair was done in a ponytail which gave her a pretty but fierce look.
“You slaves have always been a mess, especially the schizophrenic history buffoons among you.
That ‘those’ which you are,” she said raising a smile full of pride on her face. “Technically, I
should report you, or maybe just shoot you…but it’s Independence Day and I don’t want slave
blood on me,” she said, disgusted, “Oh! That filthy thing.”
Seeing these weird things now, Samuel Myers was convinced he was in a dream – the trees
playing Bach, this weird woman spelling out illogical arguments; it can’t be in a real life.
“I am getting late for my data therapy,” said she, looking at her car’s front shield, which
automatically displayed the time.
“Anyways…Happy Dying,” she said, climbing back to her car.
Samuel Myers was awestruck with the kind of lucid dream he was having; he saw the woman
zoom past him; he had read, that while lucid dreaming people have reported of flying — he tried
that but to no avail, he slapped himself and felt the pain.
“I am not in pain,…I am not in pain,…Oh!Lord! Where am I?” He said shouting towards the sky,
but God was today in no mood to reply to the rational scientist.
Our chemist proceeded towards the tunnel, which was a tunnel of most majestic sort. It was all
covered with abstract paintings of the twentieth century through which light shone through
creating patterns that could only have been seen in an Aurora.
At the end of the tunnel, a city square was seen, street lamps covered every foot of the the
square, skyscrapers taller than the Burj Khalifa could be seen, the square diminished even
Manhattan by a large margin.
The chemist walking through the square tried to make sense of everything – where he was, how
he had come there. The writings on billboards and walls made little sense to him —
‘COMINANCE,’ ‘ELEAT’ — these words he had not read before in his lifetime.
Though after a few blocks he stumbled on a window pane, there were written words on it
which made perfect linguistic sense to him, not only sense but such horror swept through his
body that his eyes didn’t blink for several minutes.
“KILL THOSE HOMO SAPIENS SONS-OF-BITCHES.” One read.
Then on an another window pane: “THE MOST HORRIBLE PESTS — HOMO SAPIENS.” And many
others, which this author can’t spell on these pages. Every single one of those quotes were
accompanied by the same symbol which was in the women’s car with a zero mounted by a one
in Arabic numerals.
“I can’t believe my eyes,” he mumbled. The chemist brisked up his pace, trying to hide his face in his black sweater, his eyes were filled in such a terror that can only be seen in a prisoner’s who is to be executed.
A bright red glow came over his face, a ground was seen burning with fire –– the fire of most
beautiful sort one can lay his eyes upon, the fire which rejuvenates. He was lured by it.

He went near the gate of the ground which was burning with fire; the fire was not an ordinary fire but a fire of pages, billion and billion of pages could be seen through dancing in a whirl, and burning; new ones coming out of the ground every second.
A page hit his sweater, he glanced at it: “WHY HUMANS WILL NOT RULE THE EARTH IN THE
FUTURE? AND WHY WE SHOULD BE ALARMED.” It was front page of a research paper written
by Rubin Cockfield and Ivan Platonov. Seeing this sent a chill down Myers’ body; the page leapt
from his hand, as if it was not a page but a frog, zipped to the fire, as a piece of iron does when
attracted by a magnet.
Samuel Myers couldn’t believe his eyes. No one, nothing was there who could tell where he was.
In a utter state of despair, he just now wanted to see a human face. He gathered himself and
went for the search.
“I have become Robinson Crusoe, haven’t I?” he mumbled, with an ironic smile. “No water, no
food here, only silence and occasional sirens; very weird sort of people must live here, indeed.”
Just then, a current of delight ran in his nerves. “A library!” he exclaimed in joy. “There must be
people in there; and good people, for where to find better people than the library.”
He rushed in there. The library, it must be said, was a work of art itself. The Nobel Laureate had
gone to every library in the world, but no one was as beautiful as this one. This library had a
dome comparable only to Florence Cathedral; every bit of the library was covered with
chandelier’s lights. The dome was stacked with books; and books on floor were stacked in an
elliptical manner with lights embedded in those ellipses.
“If kingdom of god existed somewhere, it must be here in this library.” The world-renowned
chemist said looking at the vastness and magnificent architecture of the library.
Amid the vastness, there was not a single face to be seen; but our nobel laureate had certainly
forgot the search for them, gazing the beautiful books stacked in the great library. He began
touching the books, and flipping them. He glanced at the first which had the title ‘HUMLL’:
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He picked up the second:
<m# iokhi>
(ookgjd) 1=+ lk
Every book he picked up was written in such sorts of language, no book was making sense to
him. Hundreds and hundred of book was littered with some kind of gibberish language.
“What is this? ….. some kind of computer language it seems.” he said in an intrigue.
A sound was heard, sound of wind hushing, he turned around, no one. Another book was picked
up, the sound started again, he turned his head, again no one. At this point a new loud
sound emerged, and this sound was of the pages flipping. He looked upwards, the books in the
dome were flying in a whirlpool, going round and down. The books on the floor joined the books of the dome in a horrifying feat of séance. An incredible cyclone of books formed in the
magnificent library.
The whole black magic lasted for five minutes. Every book returned to its rightful place; silence
again took hold of the divine library. A black sweater and a khaki trouser lay on its floor; a yellow light blinking on those.