I look up from my laptop onto the Praia Grande skyline, staring into the distance. Physically devoid of sense or gravity, I hear how my fingers glide over the keyboard. It is not the sound of me finishing the novel, it’s the sound of a doomsday clock. Tick, tick, tick. A pulsating rhythm, harmonizing with the dancing lights of the Grand Lisboa, a sort of golden phoenix rising from the dusty banks of the artificial Nam Van Lake, and the smell of over-sterilization – a fusion of a million cleaning products distilled into one perfect magical brew.

I’m so close to leaving it behind. “It”? G-d, I wish I knew. Is it my work, is it my dreams, is it my sadness, or my soul. My soul. I must keep a grip on it, lest it slips from out of the accursed shell of my skin, merging with a 256GB hard-drive, merging with the synthetic rainbow lights of Sé’s resorts and casinos, merging with the dark waters of the South China Sea. With every typed word, I lose more blood. I become weaker. And closer to the bottom.

I’m almost there, but barely. The strength in my fingertips is getting more impulsive. One key, the letter J, has just come off. I’ll fill in the blanks when I’m done. I’ve never been so close to the ending of something. Usually, I don’t finish the things I start. What’s the point, anyways? Things don’t cease to exist because you’ve decided to put an end to them. I just exhaust myself to the point where I can’t look at them anymore – but finished?! Too close to death.

Just a few more sentences now. Just a few more, perhaps just a dozen, more words until I stop it. Oh, stop! To release. Like King Shlomo tricked by Ashmeday into thinking the demon could ever be possessed, my novel is a grandiose demon in itself. I beg you, dear Alukah, to leave me alone after I release you. And let me go in peace. I giggle because I actually notice how I’m speaking the words while typing them. If there were people here, they’d think I were going insane, which I probably am; I haven’t slept or showered in 3 days, eating sour worm jellies, in a prestige suite going for 4,800 Macanese Pataca, with a 15 feet couch that only I can sit on, a bathtub only I can bathe in, and a desk that only I may work on.

Then my hands suddenly freeze. There’s a moment on the edge of life- and death, a moment that exists only in the first 5 seconds after waking up from a nightmare in which you die. I stare at my hands, trembling. It’s really done. There’s that moment you think everything around you is frozen and your heart is going to stop beating, where it really seems like I’m having a heart attack.

Yet I see a part of the world from here. The lights of the Grand Lisboa, 新葡京, are still throbbing with candy-colored lamps. In fact, they flicker more vividly than before, showcasing a spectacle in neon lights that resembles the growth of a bright, green tree from barren soil. The pain increases. I don’t know what I have written, but I can’t go back. The book is finished.

I read the last paragraph, biting my lip to the point of bleeding. It tastes good. The iron goes well with the sugar, with dehydration, with the metallic taste of malnutrition. And then I bite harder, to the point where I can hear myself cry. I stick out my tongue so I can catch the tears that flow from my hollow cheeks, a delicious experience of despair’s cuisine raffinée. My hand becomes an autonomous weapon and scrolls through the pages; 18, 40, 120, 266, 430… 555. Six years of work, concluding on a misty December night in Macau. Six years of penumbra and ennui brought onto my adolescent mind. Transmuted from a thought, like the first silk web of a malicious spider invading an empty house, to a mere selection of 175,000 words constructed into a spineless temple. Oh G-d, how dumb I have been to waste so much time of my life. I have written nothing here but random patterns and loose ends! Void characters, semi-ironic dialogues, non-empirical observations of distant fields such as asteroseismology and econophysics. There is no way out of this, for this is death. This is why I’d always been scared to put an end to things. This is the cheapest exploitation of the soul – my soul – which I should have never tried to translate into something as comprehensible and unmathematical as language. I see my reflection on the window, locking my eyes with the gaze of the sweet silent moon. The sound of the wind, gently stroking against the thin layer of penthouse’s glass windows, is singing the words that haunt me in my dreams:

-“Nine-day-old moon…”

It must be destroyed. It must be evaporated, pulverized, transformed into not even a last bit of leftover ashes. There must be no DNA remaining of it that may ever be deciphered. It must be brought out of this world, one way or another. How? Easy. I will brutally smash my hard-drive, then have a celebratory supper at the Lotus Palace, after which I toss my laptop from the Fisherman’s Wharf into the Pearl River Delta, casting the 555-page novel into the depths of the abyss. I begin to lose control of my senses and scan the penthouse for a possible weapon. A hammer, or a rock – in dire need I’ll just smash it against the wall. I’ll just throw it straight out of the window, although there’s a chance the hard-drive will be redeemable and investigated by a possible intervention. Every second of which the novel stays in this world is a second of which I would rather not exist. It has no place here, no right of reality, and certainly no claim to manifestation.

I bite my knuckles. They’re skinny. I’m underfed. I see my face in the windows, still wet with tears. My hair is long and curly, darker than usual. My eyes are fiery and the irises have eclipsed the white sclera. If my mom were to see me she’d be worried. It’s now or never. I kill it now, or it kills me – evermore.

But I can’t touch it. I’m organic. I’m made from genomes – organs and a brain -, whereas the computer is undeniably superior to me in many ways. I can’t actually hurt technology. I can only be hurt by it. Sure, I can delete the files, but the files are already floating around multiple servers, multiple e-mails to potential publishers and interested friends, there’s at least one USB drive back-up at my ex girlfriend’s house, not to mention the fact that two chapters have already been published in a mediocre American journal named Traffic Control or something.

My naivety was cute, somehow. I was gonna be a monolith – a blood brother of Grillparzer, of Rostand and his “Chantecler”, Bulgakov’s charming Begemot and the Sephardic lyricism of Emma Lazarus. Now I will join the rats or the scorpions, the circus of cicadas. Out of a sick combination of rage and helplessness, I plant my weak fist into the glass table in the center of the penthouse. It shatters into a million little pieces, so as my soul. It hurts. The glass has softly breached my fist with its splinters and opulence, tiny clots of blood are rushing in almost like tears from my eyes. I wash it away, both the glass and the blood, in the black marble sink. I don’t even cry. It’s clear where my future lies. From tomorrow on, I will live as a poor nomad, fake my death, live between street performers and drunks, delete the novel’s final version, never speak a word of it, and refrain myself from writing. I take off my hoodie, which is soaked in sweat, and put on my tailored suit. As I’ve said, it is time to celebrate.

“Xichen, 洗塵, Mr. Josef. Welcome to Lotus Palace.” The waiter says as I take place at the table. His words sound like satellite transmissions from outer orbit.

“How are you tonight?”

I clench my fist. “Ok.” I say.

Wonderful. Know what you’re having for dinner?”

“Fish.” I say.

“Fish? What fish?”

“One that was healthy. Do you raise the fish yourselves?” I inquire.

“I’m sorry to say we don’t.”

“There’s not a single fish you’ve raised, from baby to adult?”

“Not at this restaurant.” The waiter stutters. “In fact, most fish that are served are taken from the ocean.”

“I’m sorry. I know that. I’m just a bit… exhausted.”

“Not a problem. Still want fish?”

“Yes. Just put a fish on my plate and bring it to me.” I say.

“Great. Your drink of choice?”

“Water.”

“Yes. I’ll be right back with you.”

“Thank you.” I say.

I look at my watch. 10:20PM. A horrible hour. The restaurant is nearly empty. There’s a very rich-looking Chinese couple draped in diamonds, dining on crab and champagne. A little closer to the palm-leave bouquet sits an international couple – an older man dressed in a tailored suit, and a younger woman with ruby-glittering hair. She’s beautiful. I receive my glass of water.

“This is water sourced from the Sermilik Glacier in Nunavut, Canada – containing ocean electrolytes, with potassium salts helping with exhaustion and dehydration.” The waiter says.

“Thank you.” I respond. I don’t touch the glass but stare at the lobster aquarium next to the open kitchen. The lobsters scare me. They instill a fear in me that keeps me from being able to dine in peace. For a second, I think about leaving. The creatures are monstrous. They have a thick, impenetrable skin which, I assume, makes them hard to kill when they attack. They have long, agile antennae, and many legs – like cockroaches. Lastly, their eyes have a malicious stare, vengeful and yearning for reprisal. Nonetheless, it seems logical; they’ve been locked in an aquarium with the purpose of being eaten. I stop staring at them and drink my water, only to see that my plate of fish is making its way to my table.

“Here is your fish.” Says the waiter.

“Thank you very much.” I nod.

“Enjoy! Chī hǎo hē hǎo.” He smiles, and walks back to the kitchen.

I take the knife and begin to slice into the dead creature. Its face looks funny. I hope I’m not supposed to eat the eyes, because I won’t – I’ve never even eaten its head on New Year’s; I always notice its wet gaze, the fish’s tears. I lean towards the table, ready to pop the salt head into the back of my throat, when I suddenly hear something from behind me.

“You’re bleeding all over yourself.” A voice says.

“What?” I respond, turning my back. I’m confronted with the confused stare of the ruby-haired girl. Oh – she is so beautiful! She has deep, opal eyes – gemstones from the depths of the Earth’s crust, shimmering in-between volcanic caves and tectonic plates, and skin like Urmia honey.

“Seriously, you’re bleeding.” She warns. I turn around and see my fish floating in a little puddle of blood, fluid and glossy like pomegranate juice.

“Oh, no!” I say, and instantly pull up my sleeve to inspect my arm. Indeed, there is a large shard of glass that must have just hit a vein and unleashed a stream of blood. This one, quite big and brutal in shape, must’ve hid quietly and painlessly until it hit a blood vessel.

“Are you ok?” The woman asks, reaching for the chair next to me. “Should I call you a doctor?”

“If we could just stop the bleeding.” I groan.

“Yes, if we could.” She sighs desperately.

The waiter now sees the blood flowing from the golden silk tablecloth.

“Oh, no!” He yells. “Disaster!”

“I’m sorry, there’s a lot of blood.” I apologize.

“We must stop the bleeding. Let me get a First Aid.” The anxious waiter lambasts.

“Does it hurt?” The woman asks.

“Yes. It does.”

She strokes her hand over the tablecloth. “Nephila.” She whispers into my ear. Her breath smells of cassis liqueur and Beluga caviar. “It’s Nephila.” Again, she whispers; touching my very large earlobe with the tip of her sweltering tongue.

“Nephila? What’s that?” I ask, afraid to look her in the eyes.

“Golden orb-weavers. Banana spiders. There’s one place in the world where they produce these tablecloths. They take one entire year, and 400,000 working spiders to weave.”

“Wow.” I say, stunned.

“But the real golden key of Nephila silk lies within the sector of tissue engineering. Thanks to its biocompatibility, mechanical strengths, and its property to promote cell adhesion and proliferation. We just invested in a new company working on that. That’s why I’m here actually, to check out these tablecloths.”

“That’s interesting.” I say. I look her in the eyes now. The color of her irises seem to respond to the light’s reflection – just like opal. Arctic sunset, decaying mango, Serengeti soil, black ash.

“I should just get it out.” I say, sensually stroking the edge of the glass with my fingertips. I place a finger on the other side and start pulling. More blood flows out. The waiter arrives with a band-aid and sticks it on my lower arm.

“Tight enough?” He asks.

I nod. “Thank you.” I say. I look at the tablecloth. “What a mess.” I sigh.

“It looks good drenched in blood.” She smirks. The woman has a sweet – but ironic – smile. She looks about twice my age.

“I’m sorry about your salt fish.” She says.

“That’s ok. I wasn’t hungry, anyways.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. You look malnourished and sick. You should eat.”

“I can’t. That’s all over. The eating, the rose field frolicking, spring-time kibitzing around; my life as a spoiled child is over – I am fat! Fat as a royal nephew, a Roman pope, a grandmother’s dog!”

She laughs. “You’re funny.” She grins, I blush.

“Thank you.”

“You’re going to be okay. Don’t you think so?”

“Maybe I was going to be last year, or last month. Maybe even last week. But as of right now? There’s no possible way that anything will ever go back to normal for me.”

“I wish I could help you.” She sighs.

“Not even G-d can help me now. I’ve wandered through the darkness for six long years, thinking I would find a way back into the light. Instead, I’ve only realized I was leading myself to the abyss. The choice now is simple; to jump in and embrace the masturbatory embrace of Azrael, or to head back into the dark forest and starve as a sick, lonely fox.”

“You chose to wander for six entire years, and you’re so young. How’d you get so lost?” She places her hand on my bony wrist, which is covered in dry blood. Her nails are long and metallic.

“I was writing.” I sigh, shivering like a deer in the snow.

“Writing what?!” She inquires, somewhat startled.

“I can’t…” My voice is trembling.

“I’m sorry. Forgive me if I’m too invasive. I should…” She apologizes.

“No, I…”

“I should go back to my father. He’s just gone upstairs.” She excuses herself, smoothing out the folds from her dress. “It was nice to meet you…”

“Aryeh.”

“It was nice to meet you, Aryeh. My name is Mina.” She strokes the ugly locks of brown curls from out of my lifeless eyes.

“I’m sorry.” I apologize.

“There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s youthful and girly.”

“Thank you.” I say. I take a sip of the electrolyte water. “Maybe this will give me some energy.”

“Maybe.” Mina agrees. “Will you be okay?”

“You thought so.”

“I don’t know anymore.”

“Me neither.”

“I’m afraid to leave you here alone. I know you don’t need saving from a stranger.” She says. The colors in her eyes make me forget about the dark rainbow of my soul.

“Saving… What does that even mean?” I grin. “People should save themselves.”

“It’d take a lot of resources to save you, well beyond what’s available to most.”

“Yes.” I nod.

“But if you want to talk, we can have breakfast tomorrow.”

“I might be gone tomorrow morning.” I lie. I have nowhere to go.

“I would like that.” Mina smiles, giving a kiss on each of my dimples and then on my forehead. “I will knock on your door, Aryeh.”

I grin and blush. “Ok.” I say, and I watch her walk away, step by step – Mina!

She appeared before me as a flourishing rosebush in the midst of a Baltic winter. For a brief moment, I am elated and relieved. Have I made a new beautiful friend? Will my life be able to continue as it was before? before the novel? before the gravest mistake of my life? Before I had typed the final word, and decided that no word shall come after. The finished product! G-d, no! I am going to throw up. I look at the salt fish floating in the puddle of blood. I look at the golden silk tablecloth, completely ruined. This is a nuclear wasteland. I have become doomed to manifest death, to illustrate rejection and regret, and to reveal the ultimate loss of life. That is my fate, unless I decide to end it now – here! My foolish attempt to challenge technology has resulted in a rain of blood. Technology will already have defeated me a million times before I can even make a first move. Perhaps, if I burn the entirety of my documentation, both legal and financial, and go into hiding in mainland China or Mongolia; I may stand a chance. Gansu, Ningxia or perhaps Samarkand; what is formerly known as Transoxiana, فرارود, the ancient land between the rivers of Amu Darya and the Jaxartes, by the snowy peaks of the Tengri Tagh like a herem-struck leper, eating treife mountain hare where the matrilineal ancestors of my grandmother were said to have woven the pale silk robe of Genghis Khan… No, the burden of disgrace would be far too great. It is the Gobi where I must go, find a horse, and live amongst the desert tribes – or die.

“Is everything ok, sir?” The waiter asks. I assume he’s been watching me gaze into the void, sitting in the midst of my own blood.

“I feel better.” I lie. “I feel much better. Thank you for your help.”

“Not a problem, sir. Don’t worry about anything. Insurance will cover it. We only care for your wellbeing.”

“That’s great. You’re an amazing hotel. You’re my favorite hotel in Macau.”

“Is there anything we can do for you now?” He inquires.

“Yes. I’d like to read something.” I say.

“Of course.” He nods, and heads around the corner. 3 minutes later, he is back with a newspaper and a cocktail.

“We hope you enjoy this complimentary Caipirão, sir.” He bows.

“Thank you.” I say, although I’m not going to drink it. I scan the front page of the newspaper; ‘The Macao Times’. The pictures are glossy and somewhat distorted. Since I can’t read Cantonese, they’re the only thing I can grasp. I skim past a picture I recognize of the Chinese superstar “Baby Kai”, who was arrested in Hong-Kong two days ago for methamphetamine possession. A bit further into the paper is, funnily enough, an English literature section. “Best Books for Internationals”. I try to read through the tortuous pain I feel only to realize 2/3 of the literature section are reviews of Hollywood films that came out years ago, at least in America. There’s also a review of “Le Boucher Et Son Tout Nouveau Couteau De Boucher”, the new novel by Courtney Borghese; a sensational Quebecois-Canadian best-selling author. But I give up. I don’t bother to read the ravishing praise, because I am jealous and dead, and I already know Courtney Borghese is a talented writer; something which I hope G-d has saved for me in my next life. My arm still hurts. I put the newspaper down on the table. My eyes are closing. My body is drained and dead.

“Thank you for the dinner.” I say to the waiter. “I’m sorry I couldn’t finish anything. Not the fish, nor the Caipirão cocktail, nor the newspaper… Nothing! It was a wasted evening.”

“Not for us, sir. We’ve enjoyed having you as a guest. Again, don’t worry about insurance. We have extra tablecloths in the vault.” He smiles.

“Good to hear.” I say. I get up and schlep the empty shell that is my bag of flesh to the room. As I lay down in my bed, staring at the pieces of glass dancing in the light of the room, succumbing under the glow of the yellow neon lights coming through the blinds, I say the Shema.