I dodge a spiral moon in the middle of the day. I hide until night time from the lunacy of cyclical tides. I leave my sanctuary on a pilgrimage of punishment. The journey is short and scarring. I mount a coal of ember clusters on my scorpion's tail. I arrive at the garden some time past The Day After Never. I watch little clockwork knights scurry about pristine ramparts in the distance. Holding fast against abominations of precise passion. Protecting the garden of comfort from deviances and delights.
I whisper puncturing strings that drift deftly like the motes of a carrier pigeon song. Past portcullis and palisade.
No answer echoes back. My summons might have been drowned out by the discordant din of dissonance.
I might never know.
I sleep. And wait.
11:52 p.m. - 2015-03-04
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