lucid dreaming

     The place is a fucking pigsty. In my wrath, I’ve kicked over a stack of books, which I now deeply regret, as I fear I may have damaged one’s spine beyond simple repairs. But my rage feels objectively justified. My domicile was not the only one tossed-- belongings upended and strewn about like so much refuse, specimens ransacked and exposed to contaminants-- in the wake of my thievery for the chalice, but undoubtedly my collections have been the most affected.      And my apartment stood, I would wager, the most to lose in the realm of contraband. Tools, samples, ritual materials, forged keys; I have amassed quite an amalgamation of objects with which the School would take offence to my owning against its permission. The invasions have been classified a series of serial break-ins, but I know the truth: The Choir seeks their purloined chalice. And already, they have narrowed down a list of suspects to a student of Mensis, judging by the profile of the other victims. In their hubris, however none thought to thoroughly examine my floorboards.       My bed was displaced, knocked longways into a bookcase, the floor underneath riddled with stains of chalk and incense ash, but I’ve taken care to scrub the area with bleach even after my most mundane examinations of ritual materials. Only underneath the ancient beams are where such things are stored. Perhaps with this trespass, my name will be stricken from the record as the possible perpetrator. One can only hope.       Discovering Florence, unharmed, in the wreckage has soothed my fury somewhat, at least.