#10

Antarctica feigns innocence way down at the bottom of the globe, so designated “bottom” by lords of the realm wholly unworthy of their power, begotten as it was in treachery. Beneath the ice teem secrets that would threaten the pretense of their little game, the Real Story, not that hack production spun to keep the unwitting ensnared in a subtle system. Yet even among the asleep, those hylic unknowers, there is an unstillable something that chafes at being so tightly bound. One holds out hope. The signs await discerning eyes; they do not hide. The helical fall of a star forewarns inundation, the transit of Mars square Venus suggests heartbreak, and I cannot figure what the waning of the coming days will mean. But perhaps you will join me, an imperial friend, ever on the hunt for cracks to slip through and finally make contact with what is actual. A sighing string section moans out a drone, held a touch longer than is bearable, to the point where its end, ringing just outside the ear, becomes a cause for fear. Yet we continue on, past the breaks in the crumbling ice, unconvinced the world won’t continue on to, ebbing and flowing to rhythms only perceived beneath, above, even around, but not according to, “mundane awareness.” If only it were mundane! A voice whispers something exists only in esotericism. What? Who’s there? A cosmic sneer, and the scent of tequila.