- Vol. 05
- Chapter 11
The Masque of the Harpist’s Death
Never again say the symphony took your breath away. No more joking! Not today. The cellists in the big city fight their way through putrid smog to the auditorium. Urban wildfires burn your house and squeeze your lungs, you know this and still think you’ll hear the fire bird make peace with a water moccasin, a resolution caught in vague harp strings of your mind. You’ll still have to emerge into the miasma. Watch babies gasp. Get used to strains of compromised lungs. We live there now.