Fiction

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Bound in engraved filigree and lilac Leather, this mammoth volume is gripped fondly.
He meditates upon its text.
Art nouveau-esque bas-reliefs finished with silver overlay a decorative screen to his right, depicting prodigies across the ages. The chamber is a throwback to medieval times, galleries of kings.
As you step into it a fairy tale is evoked. There is no visible light source in the room, yet all is enshrouded in deep sky blue brilliancy. Manifest glory, the Kabod, is present.

Now Cyrus's legacy is emblazoned across history's annals. He's a proselytizer. Here sits one of the leaders of this generation. his accomplishments cause most to hold him in esteem. Nations listen as he speaks to them from this chamber in an orbital platform. He speaks casually, he speaks in the inspired tongues of Angels.

Cyrus is advanced in years. Envision Michelangelo's Moses given solemn life; such is his appearance as eternity approaches. As a triangular prism disperses white light into its component colors, providing evidence for the existence of a spectrum of wavelengths within it, so in the spiritual realm his soul visibly refracts the Kabod, forming a rainbow array, made manifest in power and the words flowing from his lips. They've seen these powers. He's a glorious reflection of Jesus Christ. His face glows with the Gold of Heaven, as did Moses's.
Concluding his discourse he says: "The Leader of the generation anointing is yours."

Your viewpoint then shifts outside the room, through the mechanical smorgasbord of a structure, finally viewing the Space Station entire, like a dollying camera gradually pulling away from this prodigy in space.
And as the vastness of it is revealed, then the vastness of space in turn, context is established, between Cyrus and the station, showing the greatness of the generation that managed to build it, then between the station and limitless space in a mesmeric long shot, space being a visual pathetic fallacy of the intrepid spirit the Power who conceived such a thing must have.
Thus I saw Cyrus. I wish I could show you what I saw. Like a, a mirror to a fine painting. He was suspended above the earth, free from all its laws, like a work of art.

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