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This is not what you think. Nothing here is what you think. Nothing here goes where you think.

It is a grand occasion, a grand day. Celebration of life and light and Empire and King. Joy leaks out from the brilliant celebrants and dribbles down the streets. finding its way through every crack and every crevice on its long, stolid, eternal flow ever downward, down, down, down to the empirical equilibrium. The joy trickles down the gutters, finds its way into the sewers, leaks out into the countryside and is lost forever, but the revellers pay no mind. They are celebrating; there is plenty of joy to go around; why pay heed? It is a joyous day. They are loyal and they are celebrating, and there is still enough joy to go around.

And the King turns to his trusted servant and says, Thank you for the loyal subjects. I trust they were not too expensive? but he does not care. He never cares. It is just a day, just a little joy. Things may not be perfect, but they match up well enough. Everything matches up well enough.

There is no poetry in the souls of the joyous.

It takes a myth to fight a myth.

Where there is a will, there is a weapon.

Someone makes a comment. The King says, I resemble that statement. He reaches into his purse and demonstrates, and indeed, he has a wallet. But the laughter is dying, now. The limits are becoming apparent, and the joy is running out. The celebration is dying. The occasion is fading, the day is darkening.

Time for sleep. Time to diverge.

Nothing matches up anymore.