Sunday, December 21, 2008

Despondently, the knight wanders towards the distant tower. A Childe Rowland of sorts, but less of the surname and an entirety described by the first name. He trudges along, hardly a knight, disregarding the "thee's" and "thou's". His refusal to dot I's or cross T's, leaving nothing on his parchment but half-lines and the number one.

The tower looms ahead, rumored to reflect all light, but Childe assumes that is complete hyperbole. Nothing shines about the tower. The valley-oh is cast completely in shadow. Childe would have difficulty in seeing it if not for the fact that it protruded into the sky so arrogantly. It is there.

But the closer he gets to the arrogant, heaven-bourne phallus, the smaller it gets. It shrinks, appears to grow increasingly more flaccid, les and less of anything he would want.

So he stares behind himself. Footprints, they should be there, but each imprint of his dull, greaved boots disappears, instead appearing ahead of him, where his foot would next be. Any attempt at changing his course leads him in the same direction.

And so he pauses. The wind sweeps through him, moving the very shadows of the valley-oh.

He turns around and begins walking backwards. Footprints disappear entirely. He sets his own course, towards the bleak tower, never sure why he is going, what the tower will hold for him.

We historians will later find footprints leading away from the tower but never going into the tower. Not a single sign of a greeting, but a clear-cut view of his adieu.


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