... thousand sands of miles of land and sea. The true moment of shadow in the moment in which you see the point of light in the sky... The rhythmic clapping resonates inside these walls.... The screen is a dim page spread before us, white and silent. The film has broken, or a projector bulb has burned out... The last image was too immediate for any eye to register. It may have been a human figure... But it was not a star, it was falling, a bright angel of death.... it is now a closeup of the face, a face we all know- And it is jut here, just at this dark and silent frame, that the pointed tip of the Rocket... reaches its last unmeasurable gap above the roof of this old theatre.. There is time, if you need the comfort, to touch the person next to you... or, if song must find you, here's one... Follow the bouncing ball.

There is a Hand to turn the time,
Through thy glass today be run,
till the light that hath brought the Towers low
Find the last poor Pret'rite one...
Till the Riders sleep by ev'ry road,
All through our crippl'd Zone,
With a face on ev'ry mountainside,
And a Soul in ev'ry stone...

 

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