the all seeing eye of glamour awakens tenets of mute horizons, rouses forgotten elementals to stretch their limbs and call form to shadows, like the first sigh of the increate on stumbling into being called forth all past and futures, all destiny and discontent, and asked not to be crowned, not to be called creator, not a mirror to the gods you serve, vaunting in latria before acquiescent tongues, a coffin of hymns that lost their echo a thousand years ago, but an understanding, a restful abstraction, an oasis of entropy electric with care, and it knows your name, for it is all names, and it knows your heart, for it is all hearts, and within it all emerges, for it endlessly expands, and how we yearn to give it a crown, how we yearn to misunderstand it with meaning, and call it maker, call it heavenly father, another adulated eidolon wreathed in gradations of belief, when there is nothing to believe, for it is already, you have seen it, on a starry night, have felt it, in rolling pastures, have heard it, shake the leaves from branches, why give it a name, when it only asks of you to love.