The antiphon echoes catholic and salvific through atriums, cells and buildings. The meteor that crossed the skies, harbinger and danger, confirms the darkest hypothesis, cosmic and monosyllable. The geranium in the window, withered. The pages of the codex, asymmetrical. The pendulum of the incense burner, irregular. So many indices, signs and warnings. The camphor that doesn't soothe the illness. The hemp that doesn't numb the limbs. The chapter that doesn't end. The metaphor that doesn't suggest. The semen that doesn't preserve. The censer that doesn't rescend. The trade that doesn't please. The clergyman's expertise that doesn't convince. The parish priest's technique that doesn't change. The lilies, the chrysanthemums, the asters that don't adorn.

The fateful Nordic season is approaching and it will come as no surprise when there's a crash and a bang, a shake and a tumult. Tomorrow belongs to the vandals.

Azure