Harsh lights play up the gathering gloom as it takes hold of the street outside, washing the street in rich blues, black and orange. The sky is grey, but whether that is the sky's colour that evening or the work of refraction through the thick window pane, Crowley does not know.
He is squeezed into a corner booth, surrounded by people. They press on him from the street beyond the window pane as rush hour picks up speed; they clamour for attention within the coffee shop as the drones seek their shot of caffeine for the journey home or in joyous liberation from the drudgery of the office. Crowley, a musician, is not beholden to the Lie like they are.
He is Free... to hammer a tune to the brutal lyrics that have burst upon him. At least the frantic drones provide him the nourishment and energy he needs to continue his inner struggle. Humans are like that - they make the universe chime by their very passing; magickal beings that they are. If only they knew how luminous they ALL could be...
He scribbling on his notepad again, getting dangerously low on paper.
Maybe he should pinch some napkins.
For the moment, the big cup of coffee stands alone and ignored.
Cast at home, earlier that day
Draft this Post
Striking Looks
Presence
Gnosis
