Copyright 2012 Forrest Aguirre
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The blasphemy of it all was not lost on me. Hubris? Perhaps. Hauteur? Most definitely. I stood as Nimrod atop Babel, the wind beneath my feet causing the scaffold to sway like a wounded horse about to expire, casting it’s rider to the earth. The wind was no maelstrom, however, only a soothing breeze wafting away the pungent scent of blood off the cobblestones far below. Oh, if they could see me, sword, no, rapier – the account depends on it being a rapier, my rapier, “Saint Michael” – raised to the heavens that waited to receive me.
But they – Silver and Cheese, the men, not the metal nor the delectable – could not see me, or rather cannot see me. You see (yet you do not, like Silver and Cheese), I have had to set Saint Michael down to pen these words, but now the triumphant moment is gone, the blasphemous instant dissipated into mere domesticity so that I can record and, in recording, destroy that moment. Domesticity the Destroyer. A fitting title, but a losing struggle, a false victory. The magical, the mysterious, the grand will always prevail. I am about to see to it.