slippers snug slip soundless on marble, polished, shined, pristine.
robes of white, black, red and purple glide just above.
silk on silk, still as deafness. as though there was no air, only vacuum--and my breath from some other source.
the marble extends a quarter mile in every direction from the center dais, once i reach it.
the tower soars above, 10,000 feet.
a ray of light shines down, unsure of itself.
i kneel on a throne of gold over silver, my cushions support me as i face the south, back to where the emptiness is, where a congregation could be,
but not even a dust mote finds purchase.
a triptych immense, bronze, burnished in front of me. upon it sigils and runes--runes ancient and inscrutable when socrates was a boy. yet i, i know them all.
the old gods of passion, of action, of movement, of soul and wind; they live. and their spirits are woven into my flesh, down into the sinews, down into the cells, down into the center of each cell: our will is one. i call them not for where i am they are.
and our will is expressed: a treasure of immeasurable size to me. and then temples, and writing, and the great work.
i have moved through the lake of time, forth and back to send me what i need in the NOW.
i am working, working in a way i cannot explain.
