Take off your plates of armor, little man, and bid the mountain guardians to move. Unmake your bed of dust and look above. But if you cannot read the maker’s hand, I’ll tell you what the constellations prove: that love is everything, and all is love.
We Three Kings of Orient are long since dead. The relics of our worship hidden far beyond the indigence of pop idolatry. Or so we thought… but Westerners have ways of resurrecting sacred things from starlit slumber. They gave up on gold and frankincense, the gravity of myrrh; instead they turn to graveyard theft, make bids on dusty bones, can’t let us decomp […]