Lumora - Bright and Mystical Coffee

Lumora

The amber flood moves through you, each molecule a tiny lantern excavating centuries that never existed.

The music begins, a subtle movement.

First, there are implications of cellos - the idea of resonance curling in air that hasn’t yet decided to become air. Then violins arrive, each note a crystal staircase spiralling into its own absence. The orchestra is of the cathedral, Its arches bend through geometries of anti euclidean spaces. Its buttresses support the weight of senselessness. Its rose vacancies open onto the color between vesper and void.

You are not floating. You are distributed.

The strings divide into impossible harmonies - thirds that sound like sevenths from the music of spheres...

One.

Two.

Three?

A harp glissando cascades upward but arrives before it departs, notes breeding in the spaces between their own echoes. The brass section blooms with something ancient and sweet-dark, something that remembers the world, before memory had a name. Time here moves like syrup poured in directions that compass roses cannot chart.

The cathedral walls breathe light - exhaled. Phosphorescent veins pulse through stone that is not but simultaneously is. The walls are translucent amber shot through with golden impossibilities. Gothic arches curve into Möbius recursions, folding space into origami complications. Columns twist upward and inward and yes, like that, supporting ceilings that exist only as suggestions between abstract dimensions.

Spires twist towards a sky, a darkness reaching its endless crecendo.

And beyond every viewport, beyond every threshold: nothing.

Not darkness - darkness implies the mercy of absence. This is presence wearing absence like a skin. Obsidian infinity, polished to a mirror-shine that reflects only questions light is too afraid to ask. The blackness presses against the glowing cathedral like deep ocean against a submarine hull, like the space between stars, like the silence before the first word of creation was spoken and then carefully forgotten.

The void is patient. The void is vast. The void is the canvas upon which the luminous cathedral draws its impossible proof of being.

The orchestra swells. Tympani roll. A single flute pierces the membrane between real and real-adjacent, carrying with it something bittersweet, something that tastes of light filtered through amber, of warmth that knows its own extinction, of sweetness cut with the edge of something comforting.

Woodwinds spiral in fractal counterpoint. The brass answers in golden tongues. Every instrument plays notes that haven’t been heard, in scales that make the soul sing with harmony.

The music is the liquid. The liquid is the light. The light is the cathedral. The cathedral is the music. All boundaries are polite suggestions that reality has stopped taking everything seriously.

The crescendo builds toward a climax that cannot arrive because it has always been arriving, forever, in the eternal now in that space between synapses -

And then -

- diminuendo -

Everything folds. The music doesn’t end; it retracts, pulling itself backward into the seed from which it sprouted. The orchestra becomes quartet becomes trio becomes duet becomes a single violin playing to an empty hall becomes the memory of a violin becomes the idea that music once existed becomes -

The cathedrals flicker like candles in wind that blows from nowhere. Their luminous geometries simplify, contracting through dimensions, shedding impossible angles like autumn leaves until they’re just suggestions of architecture drawn in afterimage on your retinas.

The obsidian sea remains. Patient. Eternal. Watching with those eyes it might have.

The light fades to ember. The warmth concentrates, condenses, descends -

Down from infinity.

Down through architectures unbuilt.

Down through the sheet music of the never-was.

Down, down, down into singularity.

Until it’s just a sensation. Bittersweet. Smooth as polished void. Ancient and light all at once. Resting on -

Oh.

On a tongue.

A tongue. Which implies a mouth. Which implies a body. Which implies -

Your eyes remember how to focus.

Directly before you, set into the obsidian table: a helix mosaic. Orange tiles spiral into themselves, glowing with residual warmth like embers. The pattern twists in geometries that suggest helixes but transcend them - double, triple, infinite rotations viewed through the lens of a single moment stretched impossibly thin. The tiles pulse, very gently, as if keeping time with something far away.

The obsidian surrounds it. Frames it. Transforms the table into a fragment of that vast patient darkness, domesticated now, tamed into furniture, convinced to become a resting place for vessels and elbows and the weight of returning consciousness.

In your hand: warmth. Ceramic. Emptiness that still remembers being full.

Around you: the gentle percussion of a space where others sit and breathe and speak in voices that move through time in the boring, linear, beautiful way that incarnate things must move.

You’ve returned.

Where the spiral glows eternal in its obsidian sea.

To Orin'Dral.

There you sit, the bitterness fading, and the sweet taste of music still singing on your tongue.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​