A Return to the Source

Drop down with magnifying glass, tweezers and candle, this ouroborian cycle of the Terminal House. Watch as it devours itself and those that watch. Surgically remove it, isolate it and place it in an envelope and lock with wax and seal. Give the envelope to Roman. The black outline of a circle turns inside, hidden between exorcised, primordial archetypes and barbarous barriers of racial recollection. It is the haunter of the orbits of long dead stars. It is the headless rambler seeking reunification. Inside the house, a hairy heart within a silver cage waits for its own absolution and Roman listens at the door. 

The Coming

Go out to the thickets and the marsh and the woods at the city walls and bring back the names whispered by the locusts and the bees and the moths and the wasps. Fill the halls of your house with these names and purify your walls, and ceilings and floors. Guests with see-through wings will sing of the forgotten and the lost. Their resonance in unison will seem as chants uttered by the mouths of men. Men whose tongues click and hum like deep, dark summer nights.

A New Pathway

No more crimes to the self in thought, intent or action. Defensive capabilities strategically optimal. Time to initiate new protocol. Sweep existing pathways clean and begin the construction of a more direct route. A more clean route. A singular path that will remain free of debris and trespassers. When complete, it will be a secret. Only animals that talk human in their sleep will be allowed to use it. The other paths will serve as decoys.