Perhaps ley lines, mapped in hindsight, presage the order of prayer, akin to intent prior to action or the path of ions aligning before lightning strikes. Nightly, how far above her dreaming body, after days of hours of calligraphy charting the path of the god of her time, pages of rows and rows of letters, steeped in infinitesimal kinship with each passage, did the abbess drift?
Maybe a thin film of dust has settled on what the abbess has shed and
left: ruby earrings, embroidered skirt, a giltwood looking-glass that once held
her face. Staring mutinously at the intricate pattern woven into the worn
carpet, how often did she silently question her own abilities – a quest that served to flatten her face into a series of dramatic angles;
exaggerate her heavy, lidded eyes and long aquiline nose into a seamlessly jagged
silhouette that today we enjoy looking at – compelled as we are to reassemble
her distant reality out of its shards.