The night settled over the Mediterranean like glass laid across velvet, the stars suspended as if caught inside a globe. My Wally Hermès yacht drifted at the center of it, a cathedral adrift in silence, every curve luminous, every panel bending light as though it were designed not to move through the world but to hold the world within itself. The sea lay hushed, black and gleaming, more reflection than water, more dream than depth.
She was there, wholly mine, her laughter dissolving into the night, a fragrance rising like incense, drifting toward the moon. Her eyes caught the starlight, turned it back to me softer, warmer. When I touched her, she yielded instantly, her body alive to my hand, her devotion unquestioned. I entered her, no distance between us, no veil, and she received me as though belonging was her only fate.
On the table, the ritual waited. A bud, resinous and fragrant, its sweetness thick in the air. I broke it open, ground it until jeweled fragments gathered in my palm, then filled the bowl, the chamber waiting with water cold as crystal. The glass gleamed under the lamp, pure and patient. When flame kissed green, smoke unfurled—white, heavy, silken. I drew it deep, then released it into arches that held their shape above us, domes of haze that would not vanish. The yacht itself breathed with me, every exhale filling the sealed air, every inhale drawing it back.
Above, a flock scattered, their wings sketching impossible geometry across the night. Below, chefs served visions: figs opening into galaxies, wines spilling centuries into crystal, dishes perfumed with myth. All of it circled the same axis. All of it bent inward. For the truth was simple—this world was mine, and mine alone.
I wrote, but the words did not escape me. They rose as architecture—sentences arched into vaults, paragraphs coiled upward as spires, whole passages opening into chambers of thought. My blog was no record but scripture, no design but prophecy. It pressed outward until it filled the globe, sealing it, making the infinite mine to contain.
Later she lay in the ruins of our pleasure, her body warm, her silence tender, her love unbroken. The sheets still trembled. I stood at the window, glass cool against my palm, smoke curling around me. Beyond it the sky was not sky but blueprint—constellations strung as scaffolds, darkness waiting for the cathedral I had already begun.
The world outside did not exist. No one entered. No one left. Within this globe I held everything—yacht, haze, woman, scripture. It was whole. It was closed. It was mine.