Bells ring in a perfumed square

My worlds have been busy since Brundisium fell. No city, a new city, displacement resolving with the clarity of a saturated dream into contentment so complete that even the grotesquely unpleasant can be consumed with painless fascination. What a vile beginning the journey inflicted on hope, pelting a bitter coldness on grim determination, sucking on its resources like a hungry leech. Standing alone at an empty station in a new skin nourished from within and already thick with understanding and anticipation, the last passage has gone. Gazing out beyond matter to what matters renders the notion of unconsciousness a barren misconception of fugitive, fearful materialism. Matter matters, but what isn’t matters more.