LO! See my throne upon this cliff. See how I sit and look down and look ahead and look behind. See how tall this cliff is… No. Liar. Start again. [a shaft of light ignites the surface, fades. none breaks the waters. a long sigh stirs the air.] This cliff was tall. A root of ancient rock, gnarled and broken, rising from the lurid depths of the glassy sea, its beautiful massive bower unwieldy to the punishment of great waves. See below, still, the pinnacles – the domes – the bowers… Better. Is it a new story? Is it to have kings and queens, then? No kings. Or all of them, the good and the bad and the worst and the best, all gone to rest… Only the story of a cliff. And many cities of stone and mortar and brick and glass and life and death. The cliff now little more than a swelling before which lay the heavy waters of the present, deep and gray, a resigned mirror of melancholy skies, cities below each a shrine to what once was. No. I’ve heard that one, seen those kings and their begga...