Seven Magical Spells

I write to you from inside an empty skull because Wednesday can be hollow and bony as we all may well know. I am a man of great hope, not unlike those earlier alchemists with their gathered elements about them, their cauldrons and scales, their mystic science brewing into crescendos of disappointment, yet always working toward a transmutation to the gold of one more legendary day. I must go now for the sun is setting and in this hollow bone a bird in a golden tree sings of a sun that rises only to set. It sings also of a mythical land, where seven lesser deities' number the hours on a faceless dial, an infernal device that measures the days between the beginning and the end, as if Thursday were but a dream yet to be begun or imagined.