I pound on the hermetic door. An echo, heavy as lead, rolls away. I knock again and the ghost of your voice floats out from under it, brushing my face, light as a spider web, light as a mother’s hand out of Ancient Greece. —My angels are my angels. I feel this, I don’t hear.—They are not yours to play with. I sent my own Helen to Egypt so I could keep all her secrets. Now go. I stare at the black door. I bow thrice to you, thrice to Hermes. I flee.
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