in the beginning were explosions. jarring bursts. massive light and noise heavy as confessions sharp as revelations sometimes in pounding series sometimes. anxiously irregular. waterless tempests howling turmoil scene after scene. flames to ashes to flames again recycling promises of redemption. mistake. vomit and viscera. distort images to pinprick static. mistake. violence to serenity to blood rush to violence. mistake. heat of whispers reverberating peaking to nightmares. forced abstracted self full of sutures. stink of sweat and burning fat and. mistake to remember and forget and remember again endlessly long and with such intensity. and then—everything melted—converged to a single point—hesitated just a second for last calls, last resorts—

I met Sibyl on the street corner. The Hanged Man, the Fool, and the Empress reversed. Even in her forcibly reclaimed youth, she was still weary and worn beyond comprehension; her tenebrous eyes retained their vacuum gaze. So many had passed through, pursuing their own means until they tired of her. Until she was the last to forgive and be forgiven. I wanted to tell her I was so sorry. We stared at each other for a long time, silent in our understanding. Eventually she pointed me toward our makeshift Polaris, herself remaining firmly in the position she had been holding all the while.

—and winked out of existence. 

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