In the palace of my sweet Sophia, I saw them, a lineup of wisps, souls chained, bound and battered, foreheads to the ground, begging, imploring the intercession of my dear Sophia, that they be freed from tyranny.

Pleas from the farthest lands, they came to the court of my mighty queen enwrapped with gifts that her mystic mace be waved and enchantment be paved. Men of state; it is well that they recognize their need.

And, Sophia, stately in her majesty proclaimed ‘I cannot charm your requests to fruition’ for her magic could only work if it had a terminal, if it had a contact point; her magic could only bloom into an orchard if a bouquet of flowers, just a bouquet, is offered. Sophia, formidable as she is, can only lead into the arena; cannot fight the onslaught of the manticores and chimaerae, pick up your buckler, your sword, gird yourself about the breast, abdomen and loins, poise, fight. My scars… they glow, howl, at this reminiscence. Though this be true that I have tasted the fruit, seen el paradiso, the map still reads in so many parts ‘Uncharted’.

But still, I can sing with all the enthusiasm of the men of Jump Jump Dance Dance ‘I can see my future laid out before me now’ for it is an ocean before me and I am Magellan. Behind me are castles, pagodas and mansions, Yes. Before me are skeletons of palaces, seeds of paradise, breaths of nations.

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