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after long siege doors are hard to open -- blows warp hinges cauldrons filled with pitch how to make soup again?

It was patterns. It was a thing spinning in time, existing only in how it changed from one moment to the next. Existing only in how it stayed the same. It was music. It was a song, the song. The one Master had made with loving iron gloves, had been told: spin, sing, here, manage each beat, overlay them, control them— It was the one who could see through itself as it spun its vibrations in the air—could see all people from the land—and lower the note, quicken the beat, do what it was created for, its great art. It could see all, know all, and be the music in their hearts. Change the music in their hearts. Master had said: make sure they love me. What is love? it had asked, off-beat to itself. This one, Master had patiently said, led it to the patterns that meant love, the collections of notes that invoked it, the rising motion, the bridges. Oh, it said, and it was beautiful. Make sure, Master reminded. And here, here’s what anger looks like— Rhythms on top of each other, a