Papillion de nuit

Truth, the old lumbering god of the most weary, has passed. We do not know where He has gone to. For so long, before even fathers or fathers of fathers, we have praised Truth for we were weary. Too tired and too old to fill the world with colour, we asked only for what was right. We praised truth so long and so well, in sects and divisions and multitudes, that truth was no longer needed. We understood the laws by heart, and ourselves we guided. Seeing Her people pious enough to no longer require intervention, Truth slept. In sleep truth ossified into Order, a cocoon firm and comforting, bonding us together as one. We no longer asked. Asking was not a prayer to Order. Instead, we did. In doing we slept, and in sleeping we were one with Him. But what dreams that brew within the sleep of order had brought us pause.

At first there was the sound of ice, deep ice, cracking so long and so low that some of us awoke. Peering further and further into Her silken threads, children saw boundlessly coloured words, new words which felt of wet soil and chitinous smoke, and the children intoned a song polymorphous and wild, and there was a sound of cracking, of an ice so cold and so deep in our thawed breasts. And when we looked to Truth, we saw only rainbow threads of what had once been sleep. the Cocoon had burst. Where Truth has gone, what She has become, only fools dare say. And we do, left, now, alone with ourselves. But we are well rested, and we are ready.

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