Know that the scorched-black demons and the pristine, fluttering seraphs are in some sense naught but you yourself unpacked, unfolded in a higher space. Alan Moore, Promethea - Book 5
promethea
I am Promethea The child who stands Between fixed earth and insubstantial air, A thought who yet treads matter’s rain swept strands, and mortals are the sandals that I wear I am Promethea, From mind's pure light I stoop into Earth’s gloom. From fable’s day descending into Fact’s cold weighty night, from lyric atmosphere to … Continue reading promethea
