a man reclines in a palanquin. next to him his lover lays, beautiful, the skin of a perfect back to him. the drapes of the palanquin are open on the sides, revealing a crushing vista.
mountains rise tens of thousands of feet into the air. their summits ruthlessly ravage and tear the skies and reach greedily into the heavens, impossible high, yet still unsatisfied.
below them lay the red rock roots reaching up. they touch only just the torso of these brothers of stone. these gods of their own making. and below them, beneath the bottom of their feet, the thinnest sliver-white blue strand of a stream winds in and out again, nearer then farther away from its neighbors.
the man watches, as the road upon which his bearers traverse brings him down, slowly, into the valley. for he too clutches the side of the mirror images of the mountains across from him
yet, the valley below is utterly flat, utterly green, utterly fertile. as pungently prolific and yielding as the rock above is sterile and rigid; as orderly and fragile as the mountains are all chaos and permanence.
the man looks away, back to his lover--still asleep. he reaches across into the intricately inlaid wood of his private library cabinet, and pulls out the scroll of the day. he opens it to the 48th day of Ailool, the 169th season of Common Time, the prayers for the hour of Mars. And he recites the coded runes in their gold and silver script under his breathe, while the crimson of his robes fall in folds, yet majestic in the cramped carriage. his silhouette reflecting the mountains parallel to him.
