ONCE UPON A WARLOCK ✓

WHAT IS OBLIVION'S TRUE COLOR?

THE TRUE COLOR TO OBLIVION is black undertoned by a very gay yellow stuffed with glitters and glowing gems, all shaded as obsidian. The very darkness encumbering his soul for what seems like decades. A purgatory deep in Raymond's mind meant to punish him for all his iniquities and misdeeds that have cost all around him dire prices. The price to pay for love.

Love -- true love is like heroine. When you ingest your first drag, it smashes you like a wrecking ball and knocks you off your feet. Neither obsession nor infatuation will be included to the equation because when you are hit with a wrecking ball, you know it's a wrecking ball. When you draw heroine in, you know it's heroine. The moment when Raymond met Julius Sullivan was when he knew his fate. And he accepted it with gleeful dread.

Him being deep in the yarn venation of this blanket of darkness isn't surprising to him. Raymond feels light, like a damned asteroid waste floating in zilch space. He feels tranquil too, in a state of nothingness. All his six senses are null but somehow, his conscience is drawn towards this orb of red.

This red is suspended two o'clock, mocking him from afar. No matter how much he tries to near it, the orb seems to just go farther. Like like charges, this orb repels an inch corresponding to him. He has given up long ago -- well, he's not even sure if it's that long because time seems to be unexistent in this limbo. Something tells him this red is the only link, only hope to the outside world.

But he knows he's not dead but a sperm cell zeroed in the epididymis, waiting for a call from whoever, whatever.

And he gets that call soon later. The orb inches closer to him despite him not moving. The closer it gets, the more un-black the area gets. It feels hot against his essence, since he is not even sure he has a skin. This type of hot is so torrid that it burns odd excitement, scalding his conscience with relief without reason.

The black swirls like a Van Gogh caricature till trails of color seep into its veins and these swirls recoil and uncoil to materialize lengths and curves, nooks and crannies of a more realistic terrain.

Vigor rushes into his capillaries like carbonated water and his nerve yodels with sleepless yonder. His fingers and toes pick up responses. He can feel his head on his neck, his body on his hips, his skin on a smooth wooden plane.

But the florid swirls are not done yet. Because they all center to the seat of his vision and bloom a picturesque simulacrum of an angel. This seraph with afire vermilion eyes and hair of burnt sienna.

Raymond suddenly feels his lips, when this angel presses his onto him. His world lights up in fireworks brighter than the sun itself and foxfire sets him ablaze. All senses hundred percent alive now, he downs this beautiful way of reality's homecoming.

"Raymond." Julius's voice breaks, responding to the crack that sounds Raymond's conscience, ringing susurrations of a woebegone heart in shatters.

"You're alive!" Julius screams, not of anguish but of a pitch so high Raymond's eardrums themselves scream. "Bitch you're fucking alive!" Julius puffs his face with more and more loud and wet kisses. "Dude, you don't know how relieved I am."

Raymond is still stunned. A blank smile poses on his face but his eyes skim his surroundings. The enormous chandelier, Victorian ceilings, vintage brick walls, dusty bookshelves filled with ancient paper, tablets and even jars of absurb content. This looks like the parlor of a fucking castle.