thedarksiren2 | How music can affect a mind

It was yet another Tuesday
I hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep before playing the role of student, and thank goodness I am relatively skilled with the keyboard at this point.

Zombie-playing is acceptable.

Came home, walked the pup, fell down on bed go crash-boom-sleep.

but before I tell you all about the dream, I must tell you that I found a very silly, cheesy and fun song on MP3 called,"Heaven is a Dark Place" by a band named, The Hungry Ghost. It's a trip-hop song, but goth-spooky and silly too. Sadly, it only downloads for a minute and a half, leading me to believe that they think it'll get you to buy the CD or something. At any rate, I have been listening to this song off and on over the course of the past several days, and well...

I came down the stairwell behind

wraptboy only to see him grow enraged at the site of The Joe-parasite's having left our porch chairs in front of the front door again.

wraptboy grabbed all the chairs, flinging the four of them across the yard, crumbled into pitiful piles of plastic. He stormed away, and left me to the scene.

I thought about what to do, and ran inside again, emerging shortly after with some sidewalk chalk. I began drawing pentacles all over our front porch and the sidewalk, knowing that The Joe-Parasite reads the Bible on our porch daily and this might deter him from using our things in our space.

When I was done, I ran back upstairs and grabbed what wound up being a fold-up lemonade stand. I set it up on the corner of W14th and Auburn (our street), setting a large bucket beside the stand, and waited in the sunshine, looking toward the sky.

The scene changed then to an assembly line. It was a dark, industrialized building, filled with smoke and clatter of large machines, black oil and soot. Dozens of weary angels stood at a belt, sorting through souls laid out on the belts, tossing them into a large bin when they were considered bad or too dark for heaven.

A larger, muscular angel would then pick up the bin and carry it to the Golden Gates for St. Peter to determine their final space in the scheme of things.

Once he had made his decision, he lifted what was left of the bin and tossed it over the edge of a billowy cloud, and they came pouring down from the sky like ragdolls, landing with a PLOP! in my bucket.

The part of my sign that once read, "Lemonade - 5 cents" was scratched out.

It read instead:

"Blackened Souls - $1"