The Tea of Memory
I sat there in the small room, a strange little place situated between our land below, and the brief band of churning magnetism above. My host sat with me, near his tiny cabinet and the wood-framed window. From one of the drawers, lined with some brass ornamentation, he withdrew a package containing THE TEA OF MEMORY.
A cloth firmament hung above us: the ceiling was covered in blue upholstery, splattered with stylized yellow stars; a crescent moon sat calmly in the center of the astral chaos. My host discussed with me some very proscribed topics, but was careful to avoid such banality as would impede our ceremony—a ceremony which, to him, must have been routine.
THE TEA OF MEMORY was very ——, and tasted, in fact, rather similar to ——. The —— color belied its tendency towards ——, requiring —— to mediate between that —— and ——, if one wished to enhance the drink in such a way. After we had drunk our fill, the feeling of mystery remained, aided in no small part by the appearance of the room itself.
Now the sun was just beginning to set, and, still amid the ceremony, I slept.
In my dreams I saw the sky splashed with molten copper, which steamed and disappeared as it fell into dark lakes, far beyond the pale compass of the moon.