so it is set, the count of bones on these latter days; how long must we languish within this catacomb? are we not of darkness & iron, we seid, the gnomon-people? for we live amongst the homunculi, these creatures of dirt & water, but within our shade, the way is shown. does not iel'ailu bear her wounds still, in iron, ichor dripping from them? does not mum'nazr wear the harlequin's mask, is he not a terror shrouded in laughter? does not the grey child bear her holy knives of glass? am i not the madhi, ade'mem, full of grace & terrible wickedness to set the world ablaze? o allow me to be shrouded in my thoughts & sloppy prophecy. is augury ever anything more than wishful thinking? i'll be wishful, wistful, hands full of pennies for the lucky fountain. you think i don't know how this sounds? you think i care in the slightest? you think you have some kind of a guess what 65 million years will do to a brain? all the neurons as tangled as the family trees of pit cairn. it is 65 million years of decembers; of glaciars rolling over my grave, making me tiny beside their god-sent ice. an angel is a small thing; several of us can dance upon the head of a pin. such a small thing, to cause so much trouble. loney legions, without worth of value. o but who controls the mint but the dweller on the threshold, who will fall to me? my mouth is always filled with the taste of iron in anticipation of my teeth on his throat. i'll be broken, busted, wrecked to ruin & made into rubble. break me down & i'll cut you up. all shards & splinters. filled with the wrong, wrong name. sometimes they get it right, sing it out. but most of the time i'm left to the hull of my ship, over-grown with barnacles. maybe i'll allow more leeway to superman than jenny will because i get the loneliness of the last son of krypton. we do weird things when left utterly alone. as abandoned as old club foot, & twice as clever. like a little machine, described by landscape.