The altar lies beneath the clock, tickless in its ancient rhythm. When the moon peaks through the shroud,
walk twenty-three crooked steps towards the forgotten pew, and hum the tune muffled
by centuries of solemnity. It is now time to ponder the unfurling corridors ('corridor' or 'maze', you decide).
As ivy embraces stone, so too should your mind grasp these twisting recollections. Travel through the
incense-soaked air until you find the window that gazes at nothing. Draw three lines in the mist,
and the cathedral shall reveal its shadows' secrets, or perhaps merely stir them
Seek the twisting stair where silence clings loosely to your fabric of reality, and count
the wigs upon statues’ heads. When you see more than six but less than three,
know the threshold approaches. Or does it recede gently into itself, like a fading hymn?