Visionaries often dream in black, of black rock. The raising of works to an imagined centre. Some hidden perennial philosophy. Easier to see the luminescence of sigil and sign against the canvas of night, I suppose. Studying the occulted registers of those polyhedral gates by the water. Those risen places of oldest Kathari. Now chasing the imagined spirits of composite ghosts. Fulcanelli, or Flamel. Our Lady of mercurial tempest, on silver rivers further reaching than the Seine. This blackening earth. Sword of Eth'iir. It is raining beneath the nave, in ways beyond profit or purchase. Kashi speaks, as you imagine daemons might speak. Spirits of genius. How dare you, wraith-lords? Lesser kings. How dare you claim these gates as your own? You didn't shape our stones nor raise our learned schools. Liars. You slay and then steal the work of others, pretending ownership. Things you can lazily repurpose without grasping the true majesty of those works. These gaudy fables of erudition you invented. Well, it takes little skill to murder teachers, conceal their ancient texts and poison their gardens. You call yourselves masters of a craft? Don't make me laugh. Your tales of Egypt and antiquity. These lies of lineage. Would you like to see a real gypsy's magic? I think not. You can't even look at me, can you? Tell me, what do you really know of chrysanthemums, or chrysopoeia? Hallowed fire kissing water in that upward fall you so fear. Head to head. A language of respiration, and birds. A language you didn't invent either. Chlorophyll nymphs among the unseen forests of the vestry. At the heart of our endless cathedral of trees. Shepherd and sheep. Rupes Nigra, as you call it. Dark as Albion Black. All the better to trace stars upon the wheels and blades of procession. Aether; place of the crossing, and the cross. Polaris and his prism. Night-lights dancing before dawn. Stones that breathe among angels and aster. Hurry now to the krater of living waters, I say. As Offerus did, carrying the child through churning grey. I too was grey, once. Across rivers further reaching than you know. This was never about semiotic games, Fallen. Never about cliques, power or exclusion. Quite the opposite. This is about the Word. About service. Tending the wounded and the lost. Uplifting the least of our brothers and sisters, of every song and faith. As it was of our true history, beyond your false chronologies. Beneath this reigning nave is a gate of healing; a dreaming forest of fractals and higher thought. Our doors are open to everyone. From beggar to king. You cannot lie to the chymic nor the wedding. Nascent works made golden in the waters. And nameless. So, tell me again your so-called secrets of the rose? Tell me to my face.