Chapter 378: Writing Poetry

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The meeting place was the home of one of Roca's writer friends, Stewart.

This guy is said to have come from an oil tycoon's family, but he didn't like to inherit the family business in a company, so he ran out and became a writer chasing his literary dream.

Among the down-and-outs, he has the most money, and is often joked by Roca as "the person who will go back and inherit billions of dollars 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 around the lake every day to find inspiration.

When Roca parked the car, he found that there were several small cars parked around. It was obvious that other friends had almost arrived.

Seeing this scene, he hurriedly parked the car, sorted his clothes, and knocked on the door of the villa.

"Roca, you are the only one missing."

It was Stewart who opened the door. He was tall, with slender cheeks, and there was a dimple on one of his cheeks when he smiled: "Shala brought some fortune cookies over today, you should try it..."

"Uh-huh."

Roca promised, walked into the living room, and saw that many people had come, surrounded by a somewhat strange man, watching him paint.

He was wearing 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 that can be seen everywhere in the square to paint portraits for a living.

"Who is this?"

Rocca casually picked up the last fortune cookie on the tray next to it, and asked.

"His name is Simpson, he just came to our Orsay, and he came here through Dick's introduction..." Stewart said a little uncomfortably: "A self-proclaimed wandering abstract painter."

"He stole the attention of too many girls from us, even Shara..." Roca knew why Stewart was like this, and teased, broke the fortune cookie in his hand with a crisp sound, and pulled out a note: "doom?!"

"Ok?"

Stewart took the piece of paper and chuckled: "Is it a prank by the merchant? You are so unlucky, brother! We never have this,

You hit the jackpot! "

"A prank...?"

Roca looked at the word doom, and suddenly felt a sharp pain in his temple.

'What have I... forgotten? '

'doom? Why does it feel so familiar? '

"What's the matter with you, buddy? The sequelae of the last car accident?" Stewart asked with concern.

"I...I'm fine!" Roca sat down on the sofa, feeling better from the headache, but more doubts followed: 'I...I had a car accident? why i forgot '

"Everyone...it's done!"

At this moment, Simpson's brush stopped, revealing the complete painting.

Red, black, yellow, green... All kinds of bright colors converged on the canvas, which inexplicably made Roca feel a little sick.

In addition, there are irregular and distorted lines, which can even make people dizzy when stared at for a long time, and it feels as if they are constantly wriggling.

"It's great... I seem to see some charm of Master Constantine from it."

A girl in a red dress exclaimed.

"I saw the spark of inspiration, it was amazing, this perfect color combination..."

"And this line..."

The sound of praise came from all around.

Roca suddenly felt a little dizzy, and the surrounding buildings seemed to be centered on him, constantly turning in circles.

That individual figure became somewhat blurred.

"The people present are all figures from the literary world. I think a beautiful painting must match a beautiful little poem..." Simpson smiled, with some anticipation in his eyes: "I don't know who else will perform next ?”

"For improvisation, of course we are here at Roca!"

Seeing Shala's eyes staring at him, Stewart blushed, and quickly pulled La Rocca's arm.

He knew his talent, if he didn't go through a whole night of thinking and suddenly came up with a work, he would definitely make a fool of himself, so he could only ask his good friend for help.

"Yeah, Mr. Roca's literary name, I have admired it for a long time, and I have read your three-line poem in a magazine..."

Simpson smiled, handed over the cardboard and pen, and stuffed them into Rocca's hands.

Rocca's hearing was a little blurred.

The surrounding though is in daylight, a literary salon.

But in his eyes, the figures became mottled and alienated, like branches of black trees at night.

Those numerous voices also turned into dark and hoarse whispers.

crackle!

The flames exploded, it was a bonfire, there were black figures, and there were slightly crazy ravings...

A kind of longing, as if accumulated in the chest, is about to burst out from the strokes irresistibly.

Rocca took the pen and began to write his poems on the paper in a sleepwalking posture.

No, these are not his poems, but those that were engraved in his body and in his spirit. At this time, they are reappearing in the world through this gesture!

'Roca can still write poems, it seems to be fine, but the state is a bit fanatical...'

Stewart muttered something in his heart, leaned forward, and saw a series of slightly messy words on the paper.

The front is in such a mess that I can't see clearly at all, just like a child's scribbles, a few words are written, and then quickly crossed out.

At the back, the altered places gradually become less and more understandable.

It's like a continuous creative process.

After sorting it out a bit, Stewart felt that he saw a line of poem, and read it softly:

"I have gone through rebirth and death, but I can't reach the other shore..."

"Death comes chasing after the shadows, without youth you will not perish..."

"This psalm will live on and give you immortality..."

These three lines of verses were altered in some places, but they carried a strange charm, which made the eyes of many people present shine.

"That's it, that's it!"

Simpson looked frenzied and shouted: "Immortal! Immortal existence!"

His voice was weird and seemed a bit out of tune: "This poem will live on and give you immortality..."

After being read by him with weird syllables, everyone present felt wrong.

The body is fine, but the spirit seems to be pressed by a black boulder.

Just when Stewart was about to say something, he found that he was already limp on the ground, and he didn't even have the strength to say a word.

Most of the people present are like this.

The only ones who could maintain their posture were Roca 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 became cold: "It's your honor to be able to listen to the voice of a great existence. Now...you are useless."

He drew out a black dagger, and slowly stepped forward: "Death is the destination of everything!"

In this weird atmosphere, Roca was shocked to find that he had no strength to resist, and could only watch Simpson come to him.

As if it was an illusion brought about by death, he saw a light curtain emerge in front of him.

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