What he was missing: a head full of unkempt curly hair, manic eyes, and an overbite that would make a horse proud. What he had: the red overcoat, plaid vest, brown slacks and the signature items; a brown felt hat, authentic Herbert Johnson, and a fifteen foot long striped scarf.

For Halloween, West was not wearing a costume.

He dressed in silence, in solitude; without the soft sounds of others dressing, without the odors of Chinese food or some citrus-y perfume, without the telltale tickle of personal magicks nearby. It was a decision made after long thought, that began at a card game with strangers.

More and more, they were all becoming strange. He did not grok. They all lived a Lie, and he could feel himself becoming distant without anchors like Ankh or Kai; a ship drifting out to see. The Lie was the forge of the Soul, and his was almost ready. If angels were to tear open the sky and call him to the heavenly host to fight the Exarchs, he would not be surprised... only ready, and maybe relieved. The fruit grows on the vine to ripeness... then falls to the ground to rot.

He had to close the distance.

To see the divine in both smiles and tears; to love what he fought for, and protected. To continue to walk where angels feared to tread.

[banner]west[/banner]