It all comes together like a rushing of the four winds to a pinnacle. We, caught in the updraft of the coalescing airs can only brace ourselves for when the raging forces know some strange certainty, that which we cannot deny nor explain. Thus is the sound of prophecy alighting on the land: more elemental than the storm, throttling through the heart of those who stand in the face of the world machine. This is what can be imagined of infinity, all that we, the images of love itself, may apprehend of the vasty light above. It comes in words, it comes in riddles, it comes in rhythms that unease us. Though who is to say how it will affect any of all whom they strike? One thinks some would be dumbstruck in holy know, some disturbed beyond the extents of earthly concern. And then there would be the unbeliever, in whom there is no miracle, who smile and think they understand: how foolish are we to put our trust in a higher. But who knows? Even these may choose a side, unknowing the part they play in the grand destiny.
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