"𝘐𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 - 𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘔𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴 - 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴? 𝘚𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬! 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦, 𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨! 𝘚𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘴𝘰 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥? 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘩 𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘹𝘪𝘳!"
- 𝘔𝘳. 𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺

I first met Mr. Candle in 2019, when I was, yet again, ouroborically chasing my own tail in the front yard. I ceased my cycle as he came down the sidewalk, walking what seemed to be a pet phoenix. I caught his eye under his old-fashioned hat, but before I could speak, he laughed. "Circling yet again without even attempting to make a spiral?” He quipped, as his phoenix gave me the life stare. “Who the heck are you?” I asked. “Just a neighbor, from another layer,” he said, lowering his hat. “Are you lost? In need of a moon perhaps?” I looked towards the ground, and my soul shrugged. “I just don’t know what to do with myself.” Mr. Candle came closer. “Neither did Cain,” he said, gesturing towards the civilized world. “But somehow, he started all of this.” He pulled out a book from his coat and handed it to me: It was a copy of Meditations On The Tarot by Valentin Tomberg, heavily annotated with a mix of Hebrew, proto-Latin, and pre-Babelic hieroglyphs. “See you again, on the Pentecost,” he said, continuing his walk down the sidewalk towards the crimson sunset.

The following Pentecost, I found Mr. Candle in the park, which was strangely unoccupied and somber. He hung in the branches of an oak tree, surrounded by a flock of doves all silently hanging, upside-down, from the branches. When I passed the tree and unexpectedly saw him up there, I fell to the ground in fear. “Why so afraid of a candle? Is it because it can grow into a forest fire?” he asked, “or because it can be so easily extinguished?” I was once again bewildered by his riddles, and the sight of the doves, poised like bats in a cave, disturbed my breathing further. “Uncoil your serpent brain for one moment,” he announced from the tree. “Fellow child, you’ve done everything from fear your whole life. Your body, mind and soul have lost count of the tics they’ve accumulated. If you’ve forgotten where your twitch began, or why you started fidgeting your hands, God knows what else you’ve forgotten! You defend yourself in your own mind - the only place where defense isn’t needed - and attack your own flesh, not realizing by doing so you’re also attacking these doves! But the time has passed where we only search the ground, looking straight ahead with eyes on our sides and behind our head. We can look down to our wretched feet to remind us to look up, into the branches of the peaceful tree. And not only can we climb the tree, we can nap in it as well!” And at that moment, he fell asleep in the branches. He babbled in pre-Babelic through his comatose exhales. And the moment he fell asleep, the doves awoke and began singing the songs of dreams.

Over the next year, I saw Mr. Candle many, many times, far too many to recount in this brief story. But, I hope to recount some, if not all of the stories in later volumes! It would definitely help you, dear reader, understand him, his riddles, and his teleology better. One of the dozens of adventures we went on, for instance, I could write an encyclopedic novel about! But for now, I will finish with recounting the final time I saw Mr. Candle. I went to his house (which btw didn’t really look much like a house!) to return his copy of Meditations on the Tarot. I knocked on his door (or was it a window...?) and he opened it with great deliberation. But when I saw his face, his eyes didn’t look like the suns they once were. They looked like the brightest moons I’d ever seen. His peaceful smile was still present, but somewhat crooked. “I’ve finally finished the Meditations,” I said, handing him the book. “I think I’m beginning to understand what you’ve been saying, about circles, spirals, electricity, providence, magic, Principalities, serpents, God, egregores… you know, all the crazy stuff I forgot about when the Flood happened.” I looked down to my shoes, which were miraculously still on the ground yet mysteriously covered in salt, and continued, “I won’t chase my tail again, or fidget my fingers again. Thank you for everything, friend.” Mr. Candle grinned. “All you have to do is not look behind you,” he said, as I shook the salt off my shoes. “Remember what I said to you about the lion cub and the snake,” he continued. “In the same way those two don’t come from the same place, or even from the same time in natural history, neither do we. The lion cub is born a lamb. The snake is born a serpent. But we don’t know what we are born as. We are born just feeling like our birth is a form of death. So we weep, and sigh, and cause wars, and invent technology, when really, we were just meant to flicker. A candle doesn’t gain any new life for itself by spreading into a wildfire. And it isn’t extinguished unless the one who is praying to the candle is finished praying. Then, he will blow out the candle with the breath that gives life to everything.” As he told me this, there was a mustard seed in my heart whispering that this was his way of saying farewell. But my serpent brain was anxiously fixated on some errand I was late for, that I had to leave him to get to. I don’t remember what it was, because it was totally insignificant in retrospect. All I know was I said goodbye when I should have come inside, to enjoy one last glass of ancient matins, or play one more game of purgatory-chess. But instead, I leaned away from him. “I have to go. See you soon?” I said. Mr. Candle nodded sincerely and gave me a hug. “Soon... what a lovely word. Yes, soon…”

Mr Candle died that night, peacefully, under a red moon magnified by the misty, late autumn atmosphere. This short album is dedicated to him.