The church of the subjective.
The vault and burial ground of the past upon which we perform the mutable ritual of scrutiny.
Perspective, a thing gained not by longing but by the simple, clear mark of time, grows by degrees until if we are lucky, it becomes the one thing central to memory, perception. And it is, then, memory and perception that hold the past as a pure distillate, a thing not of compromise and inevitable death, but what has truly formed us.
It is on the corporal plane, God.
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