It is me, my king. I came in from the rain. We have been shuttered in, we listen to hail. Age is coming and you can see it in the distance. Water laces in beneath the glass quickly. Is it a poison or is it a dream? In the morning there is a blue wind. I have invoked it. I am the carrier of things and the things carry me. Oh, in this fortress I am not grieving. I am made of the things that I have chosen, and I have chosen the sea and things golden. I have chosen walls. It may seem painful, my king. It may seem as though I am standing out toward the light and praying for leave, but I am still and stillness is neither ache nor awe. I am in the midst of this place and it is the midst of me. It may seem daunting to be bled, to be in a place that cannot be contained, as though we have some right to contain things. It may seem God's revolt that we die, and cannot stand on balconies forever. It may seem cruel, but nature is sent to us to teach the story of terror and serenity. I have been the bloodlet and I have been the organ. I have understood the horses. I have died in the night. I have resurrected, my king. I would not rather be the cherub facing east. I am a new sort of gilded thing. I am the stillness of the grotesque, and a whole fortress of body and precipice. It can be neither desecrated nor worshipped. There is nothing here but nature tonight.