Prose from the journal of The Guardian Fog.
Oracles
Eighteen credits, full time. We went in the same direction, following the arrows on the pavement, to spiritual war, spiritual debt, Faustian bargains and places of divine leadership and some of us prayed for a prophet or a diviner, but after the sun went down we all wound up in the same place. Apollyon, the gnashing rocks, devastation of the dreaming, and in turn we threw our backs into scouring the mines for new futures, but, the vapors of Python had a window of immunity, and I devoted my heart; never again be deceived by the waking world. Dedicate to dream.
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