To Recipient Unknown—
I am moved, Sir, by the plangency of the hand as it curls out from between the bars to unchain its palmer’s chastity, a mummer’s wave to Media, the angst of evening news in the blackened blue horizon of a vulgar suppertime, at the long Holy table of austere woolly feast. There will be ruin in unwelcome worldliness.
Imperial wizards roam the south of things, white Trash Arcana, cleaning this pale earth with their long rayon robes. There is much to be said for shrouding—spells cast in the old fraternal chants, the brotherhood—no one knows the Riff, the tune, but they—who understand the incensed, the insensible, the Song. I have been unwelcome in diurnal worlds. These people immolate themselves for cause, & I am mere effect, no Flame.