by practicalspactical

Here, at the end of the world. The very limit of our histories. Phones were called, our voices crossed the distance, slightly slower than the speed of light.

(I, the I, have a small pain in my toe from where I stubbed it against a slightly uplifted sidewalk granite flat)

Haven. Here. Now. Not then. 2011. Science fiction, hypothetical year, fiction to myself. Next to Her, H with a capital H. Still using the Great Letters, Roman scratchings, may as well, here, in the realm of Khenti-Amentiu, Lord of the Sunset Lands.

Speak Gilgamesh, tell me of the one you lost, tell me of Enkidu, and your journey past the edge of time to palaver soft with the one who’ll never die.

And Gilgamesh returned to Uruk, and rebuilt its walls, and capped its towers in bronze parapets, and walked its walls as his bones thinned out, and black hair turned wisdom-white. And then he slept with his fathers, his bones interred, and stayed a moment longer, till they were dust, and then the city that was dust too, and sands came, and prophets, and riders, and other cities, golden, clay, great, and not great, other kings, other Gilgameshs, other Enkidus, great, and not great, ages of darkness, ages of light, and then and then

This. Here. For a moment.

Another will follow. And then another. Temporary guardians of the sacred flame. We the living clothe and embrace the Living Force, and then sloughed off like the serpent’s skin and return to dust. We dance for a moment, together, and it is meet of us to smile, for that moment, while we are dancing, as long as we are dancing.

I am here, now. I would not have thought it then, and I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow. Well, I’ll be in Philadelphia. The city of the brothers. Not here, the new safe place. Love. Love. Love.