Whether I arrived here by the spoke of some misplaced captain's wheel, guided by a map holey with serendipity's charred edges, or on the trail of the musky scent of some fruit-shard of fate grown overripe until it burst dark with spoiled potential, I do not know; but perhaps that will become clear by the end of this entry into my scribe-book.

This place where the strained greenery turned its torso towards the winter sun at the proper hour so long ago, receiving the amber blessing, bristling with pale whispers, where nearby shadows of manufacturing do not reach, carries the same ordinary magic morose with neglect that so many other forgotten shrines of the city hold. There, pixies in fronded exoskeletons lay in wait for the mythical few, daring enough to give their precious seconds to contemplate the whitewashed plains.

The sky striped with indecision and the surety of nature intermingled: narrow paths perhaps hallucinated by an eye darting from one imagined danger to the next. Orange, green, red, blue; but more vibrant—grey, white, brown, black. Vying for control of hierarchical veils, ululating crab-clawed vines seeking egress from what hellacious pit. The vision's film crackled. Or they may be perfectly content, here in this cramped grotto. My mechanical eye whirled in vague trepidation.

Definitely, I came here by foot, as my translucent wings were still far too wet to unfold and escape with into the brisk nightfall. But how had the journey's footfallen imp so completely evaded my memory's cartographer? And what voice was it drew me again towards this misplaced oasis? I shifted uneasily, breaking my reverie. All the loftiness fled from my thought; I was once again a man, mundane with brokenness—and very much alone.