A computized mind covered amongst silk locks sings to me of languages she once created. The glow of her glass as she hides in my tavern of cavernous minds is something of an enigma, a conundrum of wondrous woes she spouts from her callous robotic nonsense. The creative figure of transparent shadows allows the eager to see all the grains of sand she flies over. To carry one out of the Vintage Black seems a delicacy for those chosen. But who is it, this Black of the Ages? Who may guess? The designed gaze, she will not tell. To drink is her game. Yet the fluid is not her key. To unlock this mystery she only guides. The sphinx in the flight of the masters. Those who know the Vintage Black will soon be after. The grains she glides over, the glades she dives under give the clues to my mystery of the Dark of Past Times. The crawling tic-tok of the piano cables step through time in time to beats that she embraces as her children, then they play in her shadowy sands. Enhanced, the volume of my tavern increases. "He's coming", the children sing. Who but the Retro Eclipse would be coming around the scene, the fold of the page he arrives...
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