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Michael Cisco
Posted on Thursday, February 06, 2003 - 01:47 am:   

As some of you may know, it has been my coveted privilege to work from time to time with Dr. Noel Mellaart, director of the Center for the Study of Human Inhumation. Dr. Mellaart has authorized me to inform the public that his extended absence, which has been the cause of much unfortunate speculation, was due to something of a personal crisis brought on by a religious experience, the precise nature of which I shall leave to Dr. Mellaart himself to make plain. After a period of intense introspection, Dr. Mellaart, while retaining his position at the Center, transferred all but a very trivial residue of his property to a number of charitable institutions.
Dr. Mellaart has asked me if I would be willing to share this virtual space with him, and I have been deeply gratified to extend to him an opportunity to share the brief texts of his weekly sermons with you on this site. These are read after dusk every sunday on the either of the platforms servicing the 4, 5, and 6 trains in Manhattan, and mimeographed copies are available at various locations throughout the borough, most commonly taped to traffic lights.
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Stepan Chapman
Posted on Saturday, February 08, 2003 - 08:01 pm:   

And what does the eminent Dr. Mellart wish to communicate, may I ask?

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Michael Cisco
Posted on Sunday, February 09, 2003 - 09:50 pm:   

from Dr. Mellaart, who thanks Michael Cisco for this opportunity to address the public:

Sermon -

I address all friends and well-wishers, all friends, all well-wishers / I speak to you today of the infinite recalcitrance of the Heavenly Light, whose fundament of stars and bright candles / give free vent to its substance, freely lent and from each human being reminded / by this Light let us work to expose the operation of the Hypocrite Liars, the umibilical theft of Gleaning-Dissectors / the scissoring motion of the False Head Lighters which cuts across my every day’s pathstream / they are
Throat Cutters
Strangling Liars
False Chokers /
self-manufactured, and this is the Sin of the Inverted Man / who press cold on the veins and draw blood without feeling / with this self-unmade-Self I command all Demon-Appeasors throw down all their strength in the polished Arms of the Heavenly Light and to cease to consort with Devils and Dybbuk Spirit. The Drastic exposes there are three clubs of Sin, the Inverted Man, the Talking Devil, and the third is both, the Man in the Current and the Hormone Devil / Press to the answer like insects unkind to a rosebush won’t pass the barrier of its spikes / More to come, next Sunday.
In the Name of the Heavenly Light,
Noel Mellaart, doctor

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Michael Cisco
Posted on Monday, February 17, 2003 - 09:25 pm:   

from Dr. Mellaart, who thanks Michael Cisco for this opportunity to address the public:

Sermon -

To all adherents claimants apostles and friends / the light congeals and is flung down upon the earth inundating the human landscape with supine radiance / sleeping Rays page-keen with impaling sharpness are supple and at rest, blanketing the stern ground / baking beneath this frostburnt crust, the black earth broods the next season /
and laced into the tender ground are bones /
human bones out of their snug jackets /
disarticulated skeletons once were the structures of limbs and faces which were their disguises, and from these dark, closed bodies sparks of uncapturable light were struck / and after diligent service in total Darkness, were released when Death and Decay opened those bodies / now brilliant flakes swirl everywhere in a million effervescent and ephemeral constellations /
now the white snow lies on dark earth / dark flesh in life secretes white bones / that come out with their glow after death / the snow send its water into the ground to unlace seeds of bone and nervous shoots that will rise at the call of the sunlight in a springtime so unlike now as to be unimaginable from here /
More to come, next Sunday.
In the Name of the Heavenly Light,
Noel Mellaart, doctor

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JeffV
Posted on Tuesday, February 18, 2003 - 06:58 pm:   

Please--more. I feel my extremities tingling...
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Michael Cisco
Posted on Monday, February 24, 2003 - 06:14 pm:   

from Dr. Mellaart, who thanks Michael Cisco for this opportunity to address the public, and who apologizes for the delay. [I should point out that Dr. Mellaart has recently contracted a mild case of anti-pleurisy, for which I am currently treating him. – Dr. Michael Cisco]

Sermon -

To any and all who have ears to hear, to Loving Hearts and to Attending Spirits / this Jovial Flaneur in his thick silk jacket and tall fez, who walks the Bridge of Planets with his belly thrust pompously before him, and from whose lips there rises a great plume of smoke to the Immortal Stars / seems to me to be a Great Figure for what is hidden / the translucent darkness of Starry space is no Hiding Place, its folds are too tenuous to conceal anything / it is Vision that is lacking where a thing goes unseen /
like this Jovial Flaneur who so sanguinely enjoys his possibly expensive cigar /
who hums a human ditty, accompanied a bit out of sync by the jangling of an imaginary guitar /
strolls in merry preoccupation, spared by his Unconcern from noticing his audience – a star /
Here I fling my words into the infinitely soft darkness of space, which yields to them so obligingly and will carry them forever uncomplaining, like a travelling banquet from which any may pluck a plate if words are all an unpreoccupied one wants to eat /
I hope you have not been occupied in advance, even by yourself / for the fancy does not cheat half so well as she is famed to do deceiving elf /
Transparence is a virtue / a permissive virtue, without which the light of the Constellations would never reach the earth
More to come, next Sunday / if health is provided.
In the Name of the Heavenly Light,
Noel Mellaart, doctor

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Michael Cisco
Posted on Monday, March 03, 2003 - 04:17 pm:   

from Dr. Mellaart, who thanks Michael Cisco for this opportunity to address the public:

Sermon -

I address the clairaudient Listeners and Attendants, apostles and Petitioners /

the masculine is white of moon or bone (not a white lie like the chimerical White Man, this does not exist, the flesh is frost and so incidentally white of moon or bone), and the masculine is also black as the darkness inside the body, the interior of the sky /
and pupil of the eye

(black and white is snow and earth as I've said before / the drastic states)

the feminine is red the conflagration of sun rising and setting / red lips and blood / the quick beneath the nail / and the feminine is blue of minerals, the sky, the hidden blue of pearls / the blue that shines on lustrous black hair

(red and blue is pinion's plumage / arterial and veinous blood / veins and arteries, bend like slackening fingers their ends droop into the stream steaming iron reek broken in heaps on the shore)

engendered by transparentsy - mingle male and female is white froth on sapphire sea / the sea is made green / male and female at once is green / in leaves and good fortune and even in the jealous green that shines from my own striped irises / homeless on the platform I open my grime-streaked hands, on my palm an opal, onyx, sapphire, ruby / closed in my hand an emerald my pulse beats against it

signal mutters through red copper wires in black insulation and becomes legible light on this screen, in black and white laid before the whites and black pupils of your colorful eyes /

More to come, next Sunday.
In the Name of the Heavenly Light,
Noel Mellaart, doctor



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Michael Cisco
Posted on Monday, March 10, 2003 - 03:23 pm:   

from Dr. Mellaart, who thanks Michael Cisco for this opportunity to address the public:

Sermon -

I who have no rights address you as fellow sons and daughters, helpers / there is nothing grand or aristocratic in the helper, it is a word without an image, but its plainness is the self-effacement of compassion, and the word shines with wholesome and serene goodness /

My daughter’s vision visits me from out of the shadows of the subway tunnels, I see her walk toward me with a rapt expression, with her hands pressed together in prayer in front of her / I who have no right to speak gaze on the face of she who is dead a long time and whose voice reaches me but whose words don’t yet reach me / her lips are enamelled in hard candy and click against each other as she forms words that come to me like the rustling of water against the banks / her words form an eye in the sand / I have been offered a bargain

I speak to you now as the lowest, not as the highest / I am low that my high words may visit you without prejudice / and that you hear not me but them only / the words are present but I am falling away to listen, I speak as a means of listening to a voice I do not know but which issues from me / invisible, from my place Tuba mirum spargens sonum / e sepulcris regionum:
daughter / water
laughter / quarter
Her grave was filled with water.

More to come, next Sunday.
In the Name of the Heavenly Light,
Noel Mellaart, doctor
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Michael Cisco
Posted on Sunday, March 16, 2003 - 01:49 pm:   

from Dr. Mellaart, who thanks Michael Cisco for this opportunity to address the public:

Sermon -

[performance indication: with naive solemnity and large awkward gestures, like a shaman]

Students, I have opened graves. My life is a constellation of exhumations, my work is a catalog of the improvisations of human ingenuity in the music of decomposition. There is a thread to follow through the transformation of the body by the living processes of decay and climate. The tendency of the remains is to remain; to remain in order to address us. Nothing is harder to rid oneself of than the dead body, no greater challenge to a civilization exists than the establishment of protocols for their elimination. Give them to the desert, the mountains - return and you will find mummies, the unveiled faces of skulls. Give them to the swamp - return and you will find flaccid bundles with eloquent, tarry faces. Give them to the damp and mossy grave - return and you will find beautiful sculptures in adipocere, in grave amber, in body marble, in charnel wax.
In your mind, the body is present in the depth of the characters engraved in your memory; the weight of the corpse anchors the voice that waits to speak again the same familiar words.
Students, you will add your volumes to these stacks, you will be read.

More to come, next Sunday.
In the Name of the Heavenly Light,
Noel Mellaart, doctor




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Michael Cisco
Posted on Sunday, March 23, 2003 - 04:28 pm:   

from Dr. Mellaart, who thanks Michael Cisco for this opportunity to address the public:

Sermon -

Oh my country! All persons are natives of dreams, my country is inherited by all who can sleep.
"Poetry Fettr'd, Fetters the Human Race! Nations are Destroy'd, or Flourish, in proportion as their Poetry Painting and Music, are Destroy'd or Flourish!" - William Blake

I saw a milky landscape rolling hills trees milky haze of warm day - woman in a dark crinoline - we only see her from a distance - she at one point gets close enough for us to see she's carrying a knife - she goes into a summer house - we see a man is standing inside (he has a heavy beard) - now we're looking down from above the threshold, from the outside, over the open doors of the summer house - she's gone inside - time passes, the tree limbs bob and wave - and then you see a pool of blood spreading from the open doorway onto the stones of the path - cut to a shot of the front of the summer house and she emerges and moves away swiftly, the body of the man is visible lying on the floor - she's walking away for a while - back to summer house, the body inside is crawling - she's walking - he comes into view in the distance, staggering - she's still oblivious, walking, the man is now moving with astonishing speed, gliding, his face flickering through an umbrageous passage through the trees - his face is white - by a field he catches up to her - she turns - summer house, the body of the man lying exactly where it was - indentation in the grass of the field, a woman's arm sticking out - pan over the field, it's full of bodies - over to a couple leaning against a tree whose boughs lean out over a river, a poison bottle still in the slack hand of the woman. And the milky atmosphere breathes in the dreams of these dapper cadavers.

More to come, next Sunday.
In the Name of the Heavenly Light,
Noel Mellaart, doctor

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Michael Cisco
Posted on Sunday, March 30, 2003 - 04:05 pm:   

from Dr. Mellaart, who thanks Michael Cisco for this opportunity to address the public:

Oh my heart’s friends! Oh my soul’s friends! I survey in myself the ruin of what I once was and the bitterness which has overrun my spirit, and it is to recapture some of myself from this bitterness that I address you, naively, artlessly, even stupidly. And yet it is at one and the same time that I must speak with the greatest possible caution, the greatest reverence and care.
There are those who have railed against idolatry, and indeed it is foolish to imagine the worship of statues and pictures. But there is a deeper folly in this condemnation than in the practice it decries, for there is in every work of art something that escapes understanding, and it is this which gives the statue, the picture, its otherworldliness. Isn’t it that otherworldliness which is worshipped by the idolator, and not the stone or wood or pigment? How is the veneration of sacred writing any different? Isn’t the true object of worship the resounding and infinite silence that rings out from the prophet’s words?
In Rhamnus, in Attica, temple ruins stand today in an isolated spot, and she who was worshipped there is said to have left the earth at the dawn of the Iron Age. She is not said to have died, but to have left, who leaves may return and I tell you she is coming back!
I have heard them cry to each other unseen from house tops and culverts and I tell you she is coming back!
Why today did I see, among the apples spilled out from the grocer’s shop, one apple whose stem still clung to a fragment of the branch from which it grew? And why was it that the tissue that carefully wrapped each of these apples should bear the pale green outline of a deer? Her now-looted idol stood above the altar in Rhamnus with an apple bough in her hand, and her crown was adorned with deer and victories – she is coming back!
Why today, as I crossed the park, did I see a young woman who was running spit upon her own breast, as they did once in Attica to shame themselves, and so turn aside her judgement? She is coming back!
The Black Virgin, who is Mary’s dark counterpart – mother of Helen who bewitched men to insanity with her beauty – I see her terrible, calm face, scourge of humanity, Virgin all-vanquishing, emerging from the darkness of space and subway tunnels, from history’s shadows and coming forward in shadow, in an unspeakable ellipse like the eloquent emptiness of ancient tabernacles – you know her name her name has become an ordinary noun but before it was such a noun it was a name and is a name again, with the incomprehensible power of names that she embodies that she is: her name is NEMESIS.
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Michael Cisco
Posted on Sunday, April 06, 2003 - 02:48 pm:   

from Dr. Mellaart, who thanks Michael Cisco for this opportunity to address the public:

Friends, esteemed colleagues, in whom I seek some common thing, last week I spoke of NEMESIS and this week I will speak to you of Apocalypse – in past life I knew what it meant to love one, she was The one, so that the world was a vast tissue of flame / so that her face shone out at me from every Thing, the intimacy of her words was never with me broken until she left –
To say the apocalypse, as it presents itself to us in writing, is the work of a broken heart is not to perpetrate a psychoanalytic reduction – on the contrary, it is to present precisely and fully what it means to lose love. The Apocalypse is in no way reduced, but the loss of love is restored to the understanding as the personal complement to the historical end. Is it an accident that, in the honest representation of its bitter reproach, that a whore should be its emblem in the dual meaning of faithlessness? The world, that had been made of love, is made of lies now; I call those liars who have no truth of their own, and so by falseness to themselves have made even their own names untruths. It is the commonest thing in the world to love a lie, and in this way love is diverted from its proper use, which is the creation of truth, and the apocalypse as it is given to us in writing tells the truth when it shows us the wild fantasy, the grotesque, unimaginably baroque monstrosity to which one must go to represent this anti-cosmos of lies, the violence done to love.
The world’s condition ... Ezekiel was ordered by God to marry a prostitute – the figure of the prostitute must accompany the prophet, and in prophecy he will learn purely to offer her love, for the figure of the prostitute is ultimately that of captive love; this is the height of all grotesques in the apocalypse of John, that she who can only be the most undone and the most trampled should be offered not love which heals but the emptiness of a throne and the hideous parody of veneration; and it is the worst of indictments against the power of lies that she should, in desperation, accept the false throne of pompous war and temporal majesty, to the neglect of what future destiny it is still within her power to shape.

More to come, next Sunday.
In the Name of the Heavenly Light,
Noel Mellaart, doctor

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Michael Cisco
Posted on Tuesday, April 15, 2003 - 02:11 pm:   

Last Saturday, Dr. Mellaart failed to meet me at the appointed time and place. I waited with a mounting uneasiness on his behalf, for he is never late, and never absent; such a profound sense of responsibility buoys him up, that only the most severe difficulties could possibly impede him in the pursuit of his task.

I loitered there, uncertainly, for over an hour, when presently the obscurity closest to me disclosed the presence of a very young person, dressed in dark and threadbare clothing. It was indicated to me that I should follow, and I was swiftly conducted to a luxurious hotel suite. Dr. Mellaart was there, lying fully clothed on top of the bed, his head flat on the counterpane, eyes transfixed and open, shallow respiration. He looked drugged. From time to time, fragments of sentences generally too softly spoken to be understood strayed from his slack lips, but eventually I was given to understand that he had, in the course of his personal devotions, undergone an epileptic attack. Certain of the other persons in this richly appointed room, none of whom had spoken a word to me, had arranged for him to be brought here, and a svelte young person in a grey tweed skirt and jacket was there to take down in shorthand the words he spoke.

I was told nothing, but it seemed sufficiently obvious that he had grown frantic as our Saturday appointment approached, and had sent someone to retrieve me. I immediately began barking orders, and the men in their tuxedoes and the women in their elegant off the shoulder evening gowns dashed back and forth obeying me without hestitation. I had correctly inferred that their silence was deference to the superior regard in which Dr. Mellaart holds me.

We made an arrangement; I was instructed to wait until today, Tuesday, to reveal Dr. Mellaart's condition - I cannot begin to convey to you the urgent concern, the passionate commitment, with which Dr. Mellaart regards those of you who read or otherwise attend his weekly sermons. His requirements, though not always clearly motivated, are invariably expressed with the greatest precision. Next Sunday I will relay to you any further developments in his condition, and post some of those things he uttered under his trance.

I thank you for your patience with regard to this unfortunately unavoidable interruption of services.

Sincerely,
Michael Cisco
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Michael Cisco
Posted on Monday, April 21, 2003 - 04:59 pm:   

Dr. Mellaart sends his greetings, as he is able - here is a rough transcript of statements made while in an uncertain state of consciousness, April 10th:

- I know I’m wild, however much like a midlevel ad executive or a parish priest – my wilderness is my roots and the flesh of my heart – I never forget I’m an animal trapped in roles and clothes, who smiles when he’s mad, and sits quietly when he most wants to cry aloud in convulsions – my wild root is my man’s hood and what little wisdom I can ever have – I have always known I am a wild animal a deferred wild animal – I am not proud, but no shame can speak itself to my wild root, who is deaf to such words – but the shame that is brought and offered to me by unworthy men who lay their lying town on my land and entertain me, despite myself, and who crown me with the lie that my skin is white, my white skin is the patrimony of the lords of the earth, when I know, and know that I know, my skin is the color of the full moon whose reflection I am, the moon that is apart and alone, who rises and falls, feasts and fasts, whose light paints blue light on the rocks I come from and the land-germs brought here by chance not by destiny from alien Europe, the changling persons from barren and forbidding places whose blood laps my veins my wild root.
And I am here to tell you your games are no good – your business is bad folly bad folly folly folly and a braying after murder, you murder lovers; I pour out water on war to quench it, I put out flame on money to stanch it; I burn out my body and smoke out my skull to claim a docket of clean air to breathe, a single lung’s full – you will struggle with each other and know nothing at all – no one has ever SEEN a human’s face but forever is how long you can keep a living hope you will – tree and leaf, blade and root, firefly light, the undying stars shine and you lie lie lie – there is no end to what you will get wrong – my wild root’s sadness – you’ve gotten inside me, irreparably, and I will go on explaining badly to you forever –
I am not white – my flesh is warm frost on bones of pliable, cloudy ice – my heart is a buck’s black eye bulging and slick with panic.

[falls silent]

At present, there is no change in Dr. Mellaart's condition, except that he now speaks less frequently and in shorter bursts. In my medical opinion he is suffering from sudden-onset anti-Alzheimer's, which causes the abrupt dilation of the patient's memories often extending into past incarnations; the prostration is chiefly a matter of mental exhaustion due to the misfunction of the faculty of forgetting. I have been administering Letheine, which I hope will correct the problem.

More information as it arises,
Thank you for your patience,
Dr. Michael Cisco
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Michael Cisco
Posted on Sunday, April 27, 2003 - 02:57 pm:   

Further transcription from the bedside of Dr. Mellaart, who continues the stable, dated April 23:

... if I could only bottle up this friendly overture I would refrain from informing you at this time that theater is no control over the present circistuation [sic] and I am unable to differentiate what went before, and the friend of this time will. Can the broad rope of turninkey [sic] discipline ... remote jangling star beam turn cluster to the brilliance of the immortal light, its envelopes press against my eyes. I stood in the dusk and watched as the sun rose again reversing its downward trajectory like a davening skull, eyelashes still flutter before empty sockets, and a single one of these lashes opened to me, exposing a blistering crown of all darkest wonder - the grid of numbers and hidden ...
... what perturbs me now ...
... We are prionsers of vibration. We are blind, groping in phantom expressions without a tenuous grasp therefore to make it glow. The mechanisms tell us: that there can be no friend in the time of the being that is the there to force one, always to compel the language in the friend. Surveying the futility of this action of overlapping words, not taking me woman to the love of thy breast and thy sharp nose, bright but bulging eyes resort to dream and breast of dream.
No, I am Dr. Mellaart, and I lead to the leaden-eyed despairs [Keats] only that dull reality whose vulture wing [Poe] despots deposit ... let there be only a friendly overture ...
Let there be light I beg, let me see oh I am weak and there is no conquest that cannot be made to -
There is no -
... My actions are aped far away from me. Turning around I see that a misty form has accreted itself in ramshackle hallways - corridor to timeless ruins. Let me walk, let me say let me before each act, permit me, love me and I yield to you, beautiful form, explaining form, transmitter. The moss is gold, the stones are made of gold pitted and cracked, the shards of glass are diamond and the scum encursted moat is all of jade, the light of ether sun burns on platinum ruins and a great chyrsanthemum sun makes a coliseum of the basin ringed by mountains stern. Lead me to the well whereat I drink in platinum waters filled with the burning gold of sunlight, and I am thought, made flakes of light I escape. The well a lapping shore the raucuous birds above me shout messages, the ruins are made of sand and dashed to grains by the jade surf, the light is made out of air.

[falls silent]

Treatments continue; I expect Dr. Mellaart will recover, most likely with surprising abruptness, but it is impossible to ascertain when. I thank you once more for your understanding.

Dr. Michael Cisco
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Michael Cisco
Posted on Sunday, May 04, 2003 - 05:12 pm:   

I am pleased to report that Dr. Mellaart has recovered completely from his anti-Alzheimerian trance, and is recuperating comfortably at the Institute. Your cards and letters have been much appreciated. If all continues to go well, we expect Dr. Mellaart will resume his testimony next week.

thank you,
Dr. Michael Cisco
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Michael Cisco
Posted on Saturday, May 17, 2003 - 05:19 pm:   

from Dr. Mellaart, who thanks Michael Cisco for this opportunity to address the public:

To all my good friends
I send greetings and thanks

After last week's moment of silence -

I have had to pass some time on a bed of tribulations


With every new opening of the eyes there comes again the untimed transit of unvoiced truth that is brilliant pain ablaze on the spirit's nerves. The content of this truth enters into the soul and displaces all that may be there, and one, in time, returns to walk the earth, and one is mercifully too exhausted fully to feel astonished - There is lodged in me a heterogeneous thing, some knowledge that is present but not understood by me. Silence was its best first expression, and now I am leaving it to germinate in the obscure loam of my thoughts. No I was never wholly civilized and I have always remained wild in part. My wilderness inside is like a pair of clipped wings hanging from my back - not the diamond white wings of albatrosses or the somber condor wings of greasy carrion birds or the riotously prismatic toucan wings of otherworldly tropical birds, mine are unglamorous grackle wings or the silent dun pinions of dirty-hued owls. Clipped, they grow back and are clipped, grow back and they get clipped. On my bed of tribulation I took a flight of pain on drab feathers - I saw again that woman I had seen before, disguised as my late daughter - no one knows her but she is always as familiar as breath, and her name, I believe, is known to you, I have mentioned it before to you - I saw my lead wings close about her like supple metal, the tips meeting in an ogival arch about her head, forming a rigid hood and in the shadows glow her glistening black eyes, they gleam like black waves lapping a snow-bound shore. Of all the world, nothing remained but her canny smile, in the unlimited moment that followed.

In the name of the Light of Heaven,
Dr. Noel Mellaart

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