Leviathan in Vapor

Rain slicked every stone as the sign began to pulse, its scarlet letters whispering that private question across the drowned corridor: WHERE VOJTA? The glow bled onto rusted pillars like some votive flame, and beyond the arches, a streetcar crawled forward in hesitant jerks, its beacon quivering through fog heavy as breath inside a sealed chapel. Overhead, a whale drifted silently, impossibly, like the dream of a god rewinding its own memory. Was this procession his offering, or ours? Some say Vojta orchestrated this reversal—the tide in the sky, the slow hymn of steel over rails—before vanishing past that arcade mouth. The golden orb abandoned near the drain wobbles gently when you step closer, as if answering with motion what language cannot. Even now we scan the misted span and its floating colossus, teasing meaning from its grace, and still the question hums louder than the lights: he is not here.