The Master demanded all beginnings in the name, with the promise of all such inceptions moored in a generosity unquantifiable. Then, salutations demanded, pierced through the different fabrics of existence, to ears of all. Then, a recursion was called for, adorations admixed with benefaction to solidify the contract, the vow — a dominion proclaimed after this love established, yet forfeited to a future time. The voice arose in the throat that welcomed claims, and thus we resigned ourselves to the fracture of humanity, of its need to find a tether: a vertical line from dust to the star, a needled line on which dwell dandelions and a breeze.
Did you then beseech the Master to offer you refuge — a clinging to the lance tipped with the spirit of time? It has been told that the kingdom envelops all in its shade, its scales in a balance that the magistrate enforces, but have you yet learnt to ignore the susurrant voices you hear day and night, left and right? And do you sleep with a pall on your chest lest the night carve it open, administer a stain? And does the axe-bearer not dwell in your dreams? Let yourself be in the name.
Skip on the burning ledge, for shoes you do not have, and shade not a word.