The meeting place was the home of Stewart, a writer friend of Rocca's.
It is said that this guy came from a family of an oil tycoon, but he just didn't like to inherit the family business in the company, so he ran away and became a writer pursuing his literary dream.
Among the down-and-out people, he has the most money and is often teased by Roca as "the one who will go back and inherit hundreds of millions of fortunes if he doesn't work hard."
Stewart's home is a two-story wooden villa located next to a beautiful lake.
According to him, he has to walk along the lake every day to find inspiration.
When Luo Ka parked the car, he found that there were several cars parked around him. It was obvious that other friends had almost arrived.
Seeing this scene, he parked the car in a hurry, packed his clothes, and knocked on the door of the villa.
"Loka, it's just you."
The person who opened the door was Stewart. He was very tall, with slender cheeks and dimples on his cheeks when he smiled: "Charla also brought some fortune cookies here today. You should try them..."
"Uh-huh."
Luo Ka agreed and walked into the living room. He saw that many people had come, gathered around a somewhat strange man, and watched him paint.
He wore a slanted painter's hat, a sky blue shirt and plaid suspenders. He had handsome features, but overall, he was not much different from the wandering painters who could be seen everywhere in the square and made a living by painting portraits.
"Who is this?"
Rocca casually picked up the last fortune cookie on the tray next to him and asked.
"His name is Simpson. He just came to our Orsay and was introduced by Dick..." Stewart said a little unhappily: "A self-proclaimed wandering abstract painter."
"He stole the attention of our girls too much, even Xia La..." Roca knew why Stewart was like this, so he joked, opened the fortune cookie in his hand with a crisp sound, and took out the note:
"doom?!"
"Um?"
Stewart took the piece of paper and chuckled: "Is it a prank by the merchant? You are so unlucky, brother! We have never had this, you have won the jackpot!"
"A prank...?"
Roca looked at the word doom and suddenly felt a sharp pain in his temple.
'What did I...forgot?'
'Doom? Why does it feel so familiar?'
"What's wrong with you, buddy? The aftermath of the last car accident?" Stewart asked with concern.
"I...I'm okay!" Roka sat down on the sofa, feeling that his headache was better, but more doubts followed: 'I...I was in a car accident? Why did I forget?'
"Everyone...it's done!"
At this moment, Simpson's brush stopped, revealing the complete painting.
Red, black, yellow, green... all kinds of bright colors gathered on the canvas, which made Luo Ka feel a little sick for no reason.
In addition, there are irregular and twisted lines, which can even make people dizzy after looking at them for a long time, as if they are constantly squirming.
"It's great... I seem to see some charm of Master Constantine in it."
A girl in a red dress exclaimed.
"I see inspiration coming, it's wonderful, this perfect color combination..."
"And this line..."
Sounds of praise came from all around.
Luo Ka suddenly felt dizzy, and the buildings around him seemed to be spinning in circles with him as the center.
The individual figures became a little blurry.
"Everyone present is a figure in the literary world. I think a beautiful painting must match a beautiful poem..." Simpson smiled, with some expectation in his eyes: "I don't know who else will perform next.
?”
"When it comes to improvisation, of course our place is Roca!"
When Stewart saw Charla looking at her, his face turned red and he quickly pulled Rocca's arm.
He knew his talent, but if he suddenly took out his work without thinking about it all night, he would definitely make a fool of himself, so he could only ask his good friends for help.
"Well, I have admired Mr. Rocca's literary name for a long time, and I once saw your three-line poem in a magazine..."
Simpson smiled, handed over the cardboard and pen, and put them into Rocca's hands.
Luo Ka's hearing was already a little confused.
Although it was daytime, there was a literary salon nearby.
But in his eyes, the figures became mottled and distant, like the branches of black trees at night.
Those many voices also turned into dark and hoarse whispers.
Crack!
The fire exploded, it was a bonfire, there were black figures, and slightly crazy murmurs...
A kind of desire, just like the accumulation in the chest, will burst out from the brush strokes uncontrollably.
Rocca took the pen and began to write his own poems on the paper in a sleepwalking manner.
No, this is not his poem, but what was originally engraved in his body and spirit. At this time, it is just reappearing in the world through this gesture!
'Roca can still write poetry. It seems he's fine, but he's in a bit of a frenzy...'
Stewart muttered something in his mind, stepped forward and saw a series of slightly messy words on the paper.
The front part is a mess and cannot be seen clearly at all. It is like a child's random scribbling. He wrote a few words and then quickly crossed them out.
Later, the corrections gradually became less and more understandable.
It's like a continuous creative process.
After sorting it out a little, Stewart felt that he saw a line of poetry and read it softly:
"I have experienced rebirth and death, but I can't reach the other side..."
"Death chases the shadows, and without youth, it will wither away..."
"This psalm will last forever and grant you immortality..."
These three lines of poetry had some omissions and alterations, but they had a strange charm that made many people present brighten their eyes.
"That's it, that's it!"
Simpson looked fanatical and shouted: "Immortal! Immortal existence!"
His voice was strange and seemed a little out of tune: "This psalm will last forever and grant you immortality..."
After he read it out in weird syllables, everyone present felt something was wrong.
My body is fine, but my mind feels like a black boulder has hit me.
Just as Stewart was about to say something, he found that he had collapsed on the ground and had no strength to even say a word.
Most of the people present were like this.
The only ones who could still maintain their posture were Rocca and Simpson.
Rocca rubbed his temples and looked at Simpson, who came to grab his poem manuscript: "I seem to have... seen you?!"
"You remember, survivor of the ritual?"
Simpson's expression turned grim: "It's your honor to be able to listen to the voice of a great being. Now... you are useless."
He pulled out a black dagger and stepped forward slowly: "Death is the destination of everything!"
In this weird atmosphere, Rocca was shocked to find that he had no strength and could not resist. He could only watch Simpson come to him.
As if it was an hallucination brought about by death, he saw a curtain of light emerge before his eyes.