Hadi Atallah

“If there was death, it may lie in the hopes of man, because there lays a population of forces that generate wealth for that.” Gilgamesh spoke.

“It is necessary to know much,” Homer then said. “For that matter, even profane worship would be permitted if the devils showed any sign of needing or wanting it.”

These rich men were the known poets of our history. They were slim, handsome men with saintly faces, like the one in the pictures in temples and churches. May have been from the nations of warriors and fanatics, perpetually damaging and triumphing, persecuting and fighting, working and creating, marching forward with the living and the dead.

“…And the acts of sabotage causing the adventures in people,” Homer said. “Odysseus, I had written long, abject chronicles in the past. Examining the reasons for erection and promising to find its remedies.”

“Of course, this was not in itself a discovery,” Gilgamesh said. “Men without this talent have been wiped out. Luckily, when my epic had unrolled it, lust had been upside-down from the point of view of a demigod. From somewhere between the bottom, I have finally found life.”

Gilgamesh paused involuntarily. “Truly it is in myth that one finds the word, so when we are in legends, then this word is nearest, of all to us.”

“This is the sweet taste of solitude,” Homer then said.

“You can always take her out for a walk,” Gilgamesh said. “There is a word for it.”

Homer eyed him with a sort of guarded curiosity. “Although the comets supposedly travel faster than sound,” he said, trying to guess telepathically.

“Yes,” Gilgamesh went on. As though nothing he ever wrote ever made sense. But it did choke the readers. “The word I’m looking for is Bleed.”

“There is a whole tribe of women who just do that. It’s their intellectual stimulant.” Homer said.

“They might even be completely true,” Gilgamesh said. “Enkidu’s first attempt and everything was crystal clear. I was standing outside the temple when this animal finally bought himself a life.”

“When I plausibly could have said that he was trying to buy himself some razor blades,” Homer scoffed good-naturedly.

“I was passing…” Gilgamesh said with vivid imagination. 

“You’re the perfect gentleman,” Homer cut him off.

“But I just looked in. Nothing did I want in particular.” Gilgamesh said. “Who cares about genuine love, even the few that’s left?” 

“Anything old and ancient, and for that matter beautiful…” Homer said.

“Now, if you happen to be interested in the Self,” Gilgamesh began delicately.

“I know that!” Homer exclaimed. “This was the kind of dance.”

Gilgamesh knew that place as well. Illustrating his enemies and their atrocities with evocation. Yet so far as Gilgamesh and Homer could remember they had never in their lives heard the birds sing. It was perhaps not more dangerous than coincidence. Then the spasm passed, leaving a dull ache behind.