It all started long ago. Cold, wet, busy, and rushed - the world swam with moving objects next to large machines. Somewhere in the grey city - the Sanctuary stood - beautiful and full of flickering lights. I'm not sure what happened that day, but it happen. Mercy poured out over my soul. It stood, and it cried for me. My heart lived in my throat, and my mind found a measure of peace that could only be described a true taste of heaven.
A short Irish bulldog, leather jacket, bearded face - claimed the ancient text spoke secret magic of soul crushing simplicity. The whispering singer - with Bono like power - called for renewal, and constructed a short story of refuge. I know nothing! Learned men wield Postmodern - Modern reduction as a wicked history, but in relief, wove the rebellion's story into a complex and unforgettable hope laid like a blanket over wounded soldiers.
A some point, I tasted magic. A dark deep hot magic. The artisans created - with masterful hands - white and brown joy. In those small little sanctuaries I found my home. But other voices called me out from the misty hills, and voices like that carry an authority that should never be left unheeded. The Queen told us of her delicious, but secret, elixir that, when consumed in the wet orange world of her realm, would produce a head to toe healing. Oh, we mined the well of joy she spoke of, and it was of the highest quality. No man would dare tell us otherwise; for we would reduce their small uncomprehending minds into mush made for the beggars of Federal Way.
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