somewhere

Mayaa’s home in the North was an industrious, beautiful place. The nature and weather alone: who couldn’t stop weeping when viewing the frozen sky for the first time, varicoloured shards of crystalline ice dancing suspended just out of reach and bending light refracted into a thousand rainbow auroras? Or the endless ebony labyrinths below, the twists and turns designed to slowly evoke feelings of ecstasy, holy awe, or brimming surprise depending on the path taken. Mayaa especially delighted walking the labyrinths with a new friend or lover, discovering and reflecting in each other the baroque emotions aroused in the twists and turns.

The North represented a triumph of refinement: the glass gardens glowing at night with phosphorescent moss, cathedral libraries staffed with quiet enthusiasts of obscure knowledge, and of course who could speak of the North without mentioning the invisible government: actually a quiet system of profound but glad obligations that brought the deep satisfactions of engagement and cooperation? This was the place Mayaa was from.

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