We, Spiders of technology, wizard kids and meta-chimpanzees of the metropolis, Cats that glow of animated inquiry, marvel at the multitude, what spunk’ve minutiae, seas of information sailed. Yet we remain anchored, electrically, to the center of magnetic anomalies, hot conduits inherited from the fiery bellows of the eternal counter balance. Why have our red cities been run down with anti-enchantment and violent reenactment of movements past? Commune we shall, and dance with the psyche of the Sun Child, hair growing long, dark, wispy and wild. Heavy velvet drag of the Moon runner. Let us meet in the forest where we can sit in the lap of a giant Conifer, stick too her sap, lock ourselves in a palace we’ve nicknamed the Rhombus, and hide here when our parents call us.
The Realm 