for integer

We put the things we love in a museum - they cease to move, they cease to breathe. They cease to speak. We can look at them and remember how it used to be, perhaps see in them thoughts of dead ends and possible futures - the first computer, the last Dodo.
Integer’s story - `will you come away with me?' he said finally to her; but the reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.’
Of course this story is about love - unrequited love in the end. Dreams and more dreams piled on top of each other, arguing with each other and fixating and trying to control the flow. Fixate and then try to control the world through that fixation. COVETOUSNESS. BLACK MAGIC. I CHARGE A LOVE SYGIL AND SEND IT OUT INTO THE ETHER.
ITS MINE.

But nothing really is, is it?
HOME - as travellers we carry it with us, for it no longer exists. Bless this House.