Foolish festoons of fables and fears: doomsayers crying, followers quivering. What need has Narcissus-X of perilous projections, forecasts of despair?
Narcissus-X has seen the night, plunged into ebon depths of Cimmerian shade, wandered under an obsidian sky, discovered the grotto of velvet coal.
Solitude.
Voices stilled by distance and time, light reduced to echoing memories of dim times past. Cimmerian warriors aided the second Sargon, yet scholars deny their fame. What matter that Ithaca may have changed its name, or that Schliemann dug through the Troy he sought?
Silence.
Not quiet. Quiet soothes, lulls, brings placid calm. Silence wakes the mind as ears strain for implicit sound. Listen to the mute stones. Empires rose and fell. The wise carved faces and forms for the next to see: for art lasts. Thoughts last. Visions last. Silent as the stones, yet shouting to those who will hear.
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