We left the spire vacant for generations. Nobody entered… nobody even went close enough to see where it met the earth.
But last night, just by chance, we passed close enough to see it above the trees — and there were lights in the windows.
Do you see my beacon? Do you see the tower, lit and smoking like tallow? Now the world will know…
They will know the tower’s authority is not absolute.
I have something you will never find in your encrypted archive, in your registry, in your solid state cold storage.
When I was lost in the light, I made my own dark, and it walked with me — my ageless shadow, my loyal replica. And in this mirror, another — a replica of the world.
She didn’t need to study the spell in a grimoire, or learn it from a back-alley conjurer… she had it in herself already, and she found it easily enough.
Hey, you, doing that thing you are doing! Do you remember a moment ago, when you were doing a different thing? Pausing briefly for a breath, perhaps, or walking through an already-open door?
“Look at me! Clay in the shape of stillness, reverence formed from plaster by God’s hands.“
For most of my formative years, I only knew the whole garden called Philadelphia by one single flower: the block of Arch Street between 10th and 11th. This was the location of the Trocadero theater, iconic Philly punk venue, and a sacred landmark in the little part of forever that I’ve tended.
“This is the sword of the Order. It has no patience for petty violence, no appetite for blood and flesh. The sword‘s purpose is to cut through oppression, to cleave the chains of the mind.”
“They told me I could come out when the sky turned red and the sun turned into the moon. Finally, I can move, I can open my eyes, and I can cross the threshold.”