Palace of Dreams

In the Palace of Dreams, the Masked Carnival is in full swing. The high candelabras pour a soft, golden light on a surreal scenery of extravagant costumes, elegant silhouettes and fantastical masks. Exquisite, exotic, rare scents deepen the mystery of the strange event, while a haunting, rarefied music fills the crowded atmosphere. Everyone who is someone on the planet has been invited. Yet now , nobody can even guess who they are talking to. Safely concealed behind my own bizarre accoutrement, I glide among the beautiful, perfumed bodies, scanning for at least a hint of a revealed identity. There is none. All have followed the uber strict code of admission : No recognition.
And in the marvellous oblivion of identity, suddenly the feast takes off, becomes wild and daring, the flirting and seduction, the 'risque' repartee and outrageous propos know no bound.
The second rule, as severe as the first, is : nothing beyond talk.
This could be the rehearsal of a scene for a film, or the decadent game of a cruel Master of manipulation. Yet , everyone is in bliss and enjoying themselves as if there was no tomorrow. The lost saveur of the forbidden fruit has been redicovered and its delicate taste is on everyone's tongue. While the rejouissance progresses lightly, I am engaged in the most ravishing exchange with an enchanting persona, of whom I know nothing but love everything about.
Later, as the stars whirl in the dark sky, a subtle change arises.
At dawn, total chaos, the whole place seems to collapse on itself, the mirrors crack, the lights dim, the music stops, the characters fade and the whole party slowly silently sink under mounting water.
There is a glow, a fire under the ice and soon nothing remains on the surface but a little ripple, like the last breath of a dying angel.
It's all gone. The charade is over.
Alone I stand. A statue of salt, all my tears gathered into a solid desolation.
There really was no tomorrow.