Fish Face … Ye olde … Calling … Fish Face …

Calling ye olde Fishface.

Where?

The Mosaic City.

Roaming these streets Fishface drags an irridescent tail of dreams. Stubbornly retaining his outwardly decrepit appearance. World worn through world weary. Fire, cold and liquid in one good eye. Eyelashes twisted and meshed.

“What fire?” boys would ask, “so cold and liquid. A phoniex in its nest.”

Walked these streets pouring from his tail of dreams, stubbornly Fishface clung to his rebellion. “Not me”, old man would mutter. “Hologram storage must be broken.”

“Calling Fishface. Ye olde Fishface.” Picking up a contact, receiver scratching into action. Eyebrows twitch.

Point in time walks these streets. Line of time.

“Calling Fishface from the third dimension … Are you receiving us?”

“Calling …”

Rounding the corner of the street, streaming boys, Fishface found the river.

Window unto Time.

Not one time, many. As the sky is space. Sky of time.

Past horizon glimpsed, a hole. Unto a vast continual questioning “Where?”

Behind the face of each boy the spirit. Restless run of life. Strong even here in the dream world. Burning liquid ever pouring into a mould.

Made itself from a rib of time.

Fishface sat long admiring the view of the river. Seemingly so vast, carefully fashioned to seem so. Such artifice. His sandals hurt. The white sheet he wore as a tunic failed quite to pass as authentic. The long white hair and beard, ridiculous. Some boys caressed his knee as they passed.

The scene photographed holographically from across the esplanade.

Fishface vanished long ago.