CEUX DU DEHORS

My Dearest Beloved Sophie,

Please pray for me, my darling. As I write you these lines, not knowing if you'll ever see them, I am in a state of such fear and bewilderment I can barely express to you, and it is only the thought of your love that keeps me from giving up.

For some time I have found myself on the floor of a room the size of which is unknown to me as it is in complete darkness. By whom and for what reason I cannot fathom nor do I remember being brought here, the only objects within reach this small notepad and pen with which I write. For several hours there was silence. It was a deep quiet, almost alive with emptiness. And then, sounds. Music. But like no music I have known. At first I couldn't even identify the instruments, such a flurry of discordant sounds that it was-- and then an oboe, a piano, and strings, percussion, and more strata of winds.

But it is an uneasy music, my dear. An ill-tempered, unstable, often disquieting thing unable to settle on any one motif or phrase, always drawn toward the most unlikely of places. And black. Black as the ink with which I write and blacker. Oh dear Sophie, this is not good song, but a shadow of reapers, a shadow that stretches on for what seems like hours if not days. Finally a rest and more familiar tones from a squeezebox, pipes, a bassdrum, and the voices of men. Men of God, but those who've turned to the beast. These were the voices of demons, my dearest. More sickening pipes and squeezeboxes of some sort, and an orchestra: bells, bassoons, violins, an organ.

Something playful now but no less ominous in tone as it too grows dark. Lord, where is this taking my soul and why have you forsaken me? The next work is hypnotic in its gruesome intent-- rhythms that jerk about most uncomfortably; military marches of a Dark Cabal; men gone over the edge; murder, chaos, and the death of love. Then a rare moment of calm with a solitary viola, weeping into the night for what has been lost, taken over by an oboe and followed by terrible things, smashing keys, screaming animals. Oh dear, dear. Will this torment ever end? I might be able to endure it If I knew it would soon all be over. But such is not my fortune.

A most wrong melody now plays over a march, ending with more unsettled energies. Distant rumbles punctured by sharp blurtings as if something is coming. I don't want to know what it is but I have little choice. Carefully it approaches, lumbering toward me getting larger with noises I cannot know; a crescendo that hurts my soul, and mistuned keyboards play in some deserted salon joined by a din of rotting flesh.

And then it stopped. And it remain stopped, and I can only hope this letter finds its way to you, my most treasured and beloved. Maybe someday we will be together again.

My deepest fidelity and affections,

Owen

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