Every Structure Wants to Collapse Gracefully
Every structure wants to collapse gracefully: the body under the weight of years, the house once full of laughter, the nation built on myth. Even memory, if left untouched, begins to fold in on itself — softly, almost mercifully — like an experience morphing into a dream. In that collapse, something remains: a residue of truth, small but indestructible, from which my exiled self begins to dream again.
Paper Lanterns in the Darkness
How did I begin this ritual of experience, all those years ago? I finally understand the madness that tethered sorcerers to their crucibles. Why alchemy transformed into a science. Was it not the desire to find antidotes to our inevitable demise?