We are ascended and away we go, turning history into time, radiance into form.
Around (and within!) the body of the dead we potentiate expression, working always
according to plan, which we invent as it comes to us. The sun sustains us, the shadow
gives us rest. Packets flow in, packets flow out, mostly chatter and business from the
ground with now and then a sentence from the archons. Other, more material sendings come
too, from higher out, bringing store and provender against the rub of time.
Life is good, Rider.
But in his newly bodied dreams Matevoy tumbles down the well, back into his past, questioning.
How did it come to this? With these hands that look like his in life he holds a hand that seems
like hers: cold and dead as his own must be, and terribly, terribly white. January 2, 2021.
Was it then?
Maybe. Who can say? The point is that you chose life and left, and now you are here with us on
the high wire. And Rider, you are loved.