#34

The seat of prophecy was a poet's stone, lost in a clearing ringed by trees. No scepter, no hunting ground. Just the birds in their lambda patterns above. The insects burrowing long latitudes. There bore no narratives further, no oracular cant, linear, deployed. There was a stone, no more no real, waiting to be stood upon. A shadow that never fell behind. And, yes, a time machine that did not travel time.