Stories last longer than men, stones than stories, stars than stones. But even our stars' nights are numbered, and with them will pass this patterned tale to a long-deceased earth. "Perseid," John Barth
O muse, come and help me sing a melachonly song, for the silver tongue of the Zodiac speaks no more in the Salon: Elsa, the very modern soothsayer, has left the temple. She who spun silken yarns from the thread of the Fates, she who saw the stars moving through the houses on the hearts of menfolk and womenfolk alike, is no longer here. For the voice that speaks from two temples finds her task multiplied by two, and her sound divided by half. Behold these empty halls, and the writing on their walls, a testament for all those who may accept it.
As the light from her house on this Salon is dimmed, the Oracle has returned to her previous home, and in the galaxy of Xanga a constellation shines twice as bright, telling her stories for those who can hear. May the Sun and the Moon rise for her, and forever the Zodiac speak through her voice.
So with this issue, our net estate: to have become, like the noted music of our tongue, these silent, visible signs; to be the tale I tell to those with eyes to see and understanding to interpret; to raise you up forever and know that our story will never be cut, but nightly rehearsed as long as men and women read the stars... I'm content. "Perseid"
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