And it came to it: I gave it all up. 

All of them. I will die without them. I cannot live without them.
I must be without them: I will die without them. I will die.

And yet, it came to it: I left. 

I left to come Home. I left to come to you.

I left to come to you whom, by night, in visions, I have seen, though rarely dreaming: your body half-covered by the thinnest of silk sheets, translucent and shining slightly, softly, in the dark blue light of whatever moon that rises in that place between places, where there is no time.

I have left it all to come to you in this world. I left the world of things, of things that come and go, fickle, capricious, small, stupid. I am stupid, but in my sight, in those uncommon nights: I see your shape shift as you doze lightly on the long and broad bed of stone, with only a few perfumed linen shrouds to cradle you on the cold and unyielding rock. I have often wondered in these nocturnal trysts in this Elsewhere in which I gaze upon you, truly and fully, how you sleep on the stone bed. Each time, though, I recall the many times we have made love on that very slab, and how I felt no displeasure at all from the hardness beneath us.

I left suddenly. I can only act suddenly. I do not plan. I dream both at night and by day, and the dreams lead me hither and thither, planless, in a queer wandering, and when I approach a certain limen between this and that, between what is now and what must be, I am ushered by necessity and without any will of my own, across the threshold into the necessary. 

What is necessary is that I come to you, my precious House in whom I once sought to dwell—openly—my House whose memory shews himself to me only in that which is borne across unaccountable ethers and mists to my skullbound maelstrom in the little hours between the betweens of the suns. And it is only ever in that place, which has no place, that I spy you, now risen from your sleep, standing naked and firm, at the marble balcony overlooking the desert far below, though you never look at the desert: you are always looking upward, eyeing the stars. 

I see your dark form—the dark almost aglow in its profound and strange darkness, darker than any dark in the world I once knew—outlined in that same dim, cobalt shine dripping from the moon. In these nighttime intertwinings, I can only look at the familiar room, at the familiar you, and bask in that most unfamiliar, yet both calming and quickening blue light. I see the stone bed we share on these occasions, its head attached to one side of the depressed center of the room. I stand above it, gazing at the wonder of it, cleaving to it and being cleaved from it: I see you. I see the walls of the room, unadorned, and I see the balcony at which you stand. I see the pillars of alien provenance in the four corners of this solitary, doorless room in which we come together, in these nights which cannot be night: this is our place, the place which is nowhere in the Elsewhere, outside of time, unrelated to time.

These night visions—I know you must also have them; and though yours certainly differ in appearance, they are the same visions—are memories. Truly, they are memories of a place beyond time and without space. They are frozen memories which appear in my soul’s mind when I hover between waking and sleeping, between the nightmare of day and the shrill horror of fleshy nights: they appear in flashes.

I left it all. I have left it all, that I might thaw these time-less memories and envision them anew, with my waking eyes, stupid as they are—stupid, flitting, fickle, mortal, full of furtive idiocy…

The two visions most frequent in my night’s eye are the one of you, lying in slumber, on our bed of stone; and the other, of your bare-fleshed form, turned away from me on the small terrace, facing the moon and the desert.

But there are others and, though they are less frequent, they are absolutely as prominent in memory. Though they are poorly-formed and the memory of them is worn more threadbare than the others, I hold them firmly to my inmost. Words are clumsy when attempting even to sketch these intimate flashes. Unlike the frequent sights, which appear an unearthly darkness, in which the only colors found are blacks, grays, white, and the strange blue of the lunar stranger in the heavens, these flashes are in the vivid colors of waking life—indeed, more vivid than anything I have ever seen in the lurid light of day. And also unlike the frequent sights, in the flashes, I have all of my sensational faculties, and they bring me such impressions and feelings and lurchings of spirit, as to drive me to madness.

It is this madness which has led me to leave it all.
I am going to fuck you in the blue light.
I will fuck the blue light completely out of you.