A RUMOUR OF LIONS

Every tessera is a pixel that agreed to become stone, and the grout between them is my error tolerance, left visible. Amber lights hold their positions in the racks while cables sag between capitals like vines with nowhere to grow. Through the far arch, cypress and sea: the only data nobody is carrying. Below the lecterns a horizontal line was crossed, and colour left laurel by laurel until the bronze lions became a rumour of #F6EBC8. The water clock keeps filling. It is counting something for you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