in the favoritism of books, the "ancient" "scribe" was a futurist. she chose from the seven gates of the golden city. i take that back. she did not choose. she closed the gate, behind her, in front of her, inside her.

twice the entanglement, except happen habit a stance. she sat down by the perfume river and wept, in exile from the golden city. it was part of her tradition, exile. muster his words, incubate their fatutous meeting to what avail. silent tears, years waiting, her tears were the river, she wept inside out. the perfume was her blood, untrapped, innoculated, finally expelled in whirling shimmers of depth. she bled its metallic fragrance, charged with myrrh & copper, yes, nickel taste of blood, of speed, the harsh salt. the caustic sediment despite the cleaving foundations of rock shrines, the temple in ruins became the most important icon of her tribe.

the diamonds crept out of each pore, hardened by the drought outside the city. gladly, the diamonds were her work, her hard steel loom function, outstripped by less sacred technologies. it was part of her tradition, diamonds were her language name. each diamond was a syllable. each crytsal, an innocent metaphor for her tradition, which renewed the year on that very day that she wrote "her tradition, which renewed...."

the Y of the word sYllable was an endless portal into itself, because of the word SYBIL, it treated her well. she was everything she wanted him to be; that is, she didn't want him to be any thing, so she was no thing, no identity, just an entity; it was part of her tradition. be reminded that tradition rankles the fabric of culture, dogs the dispare of the hereditary. that is to say, it chewed her up and spat her out, disheveled, raggedy, bleeding and porous oozing blood from many orifices.

the vials on the shelves of the tomb of books, filled with the dried blood of the memory of the countess. some believed that the countess shared her ways, but it was not so. he reconstructed her in the images of colonial passion, not had, rather sang to in the haste of troubadours, she got to be the exotic mistress to his years of guilt. Not plagued but absorbed with prosperity & the sightsung smells of lovesweat, sweet imaginings, but not hers.

But this in her self-mythologizing mind was to be treated well, because she thought it would give her prophetic powers to be so down-and-out. trained in thepeculiar mysticism of blood-letting, he derived handsome pleasures from turning her pages inward, engaged her in elipses, a fraction of the impassioned anxieties he contemplated. did he enjoy her hereditary suffering. if so be it, selah, omein.

she inscribed him in the book of life, because he had not seriously wronged her. he HAD taken her, there, the first time, many years previous; it was amazing how difficult it was for him to grasp her Otherness. so she sat outside the City of God and the Book of Pleasures, which are one and the same, and contemplated the beauty of the walls that she wanted to imagine kept her out. the gates called openings rattled in the prosaic wind; pages of the Book of Life with all those dead and living names.