Fiction

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Blitz.

In this dream of my Spirit I saw various scenes play out, centering on a mysterious yet hauntingly familiar man identified as Maxmillian, apparently a world leader of some sort. The question that weighed on me was this: “Was he a real man I knew from somewhere or was this just pizza dream Deja-vu?”
In this initial scenario, he was on a Television set addressing the nations. He was olive-skinned with short dark hair, sublimely attractive both in form and countenance, he wore an American cut suit of a cotton pink hue.

The color palette of this broadcast had a Spielbergian glow, colors and surroundings projecting a feeling of magical possibility and avant-garde creativity, within the bounds of good taste, it wasn’t over the top.
The set decoration had a surreal semblance, chic homely with a futuristic feel, the impression I got looking at it was this was decor from Earth’s future with nods to 20th-Century furnishing.
In another image futuristic, cutting edge aircraft, serving this man, skimmed just over the surface of some unidentified desert at great speeds. One could’ve mistaken the scene for being Cyberpunk, from some dystopic future that is, but in reality these were the tools of a healthy and intrepid culture. They looked like sleek black versions of craft seen in the Star Wars movies, like the Lambda Class T-4 shuttle and Tie fighters for instance.
They could assemble and dissemble in a superfast manner to form new structures like Lego, for both military and commercial purposes. At times they combined to form a giant siege artillery piece named Blitzkrieg. This current assignment of these marvels, on which they moved with such mesmeric purpose, was a mystery to me.

In the next one “Max” as his friends called him, was talking to a large audience in an auditorium. The stage had been cleared and he had been asked to give a testimony of the grace of the Living God. In an accent that was Texan in spirit but rather unique and not quite identifiable, he spoke of many projects he was involved in, economic ventures in the Middle East, tithing that was not obligatory but an act of unconditional love, oil refineries he had built, I even saw an image of one, it had a quasi retro look.
This man was a genius in the political, economic, military, spiritual, medical, cultural spheres of life, practically everywhere, providing solutions that baffled the world, solving problems that governments had no answer for, a “Superman” for Jesus, part of a Priestly class exercising political and social control; he was a political leader that was also a “high priest” with special and unique knowledge.



A finally this image: He sat on a cream sofa in so tranquil a manner that one could almost mistake his relaxed demeanor for overconfidence. Enclosed in a dreamlike glow, this setting's atmosphere was cryptic enough to again beg that inquiry: "Is he even real or the product of my imagination?"

The marble of his surroundings bears testimony to the fact this is a castle. You sense he's a man of awe-inspiring success, reminiscent of a conquering Jewish king in the flower of youth.

His rose-colored suit houses an exceptional frame. An exceedingly handsome, olive, clean-shaven face surpasses those of bygone movie stars at the height of their power. Beautifully cut raven hair adorns him like a crown.

But his eyes, large and magnetic, are his most striking features. They seem to tell of reservoirs of love and wisdom within him.

Outside is futuristic, a darkened world where the old rules seem to no longer apply, attesting to this is a crimson instead of a blue sky.

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