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“The Cathedral That Misheard God”
Once, in the glottal pause between two thunderclaps, a monastery tried to pray itself into armor.
The prayers were too loud.
It began with whispers—architecture murmuring in Latin dialects it invented mid-sentence. Then came the writhing: staircases tangled into bone, pulpits bled corridors, and stained glass eyes blinked themselves open. Monks were absorbed—one by one—into a growing consciousness of cathedrals that thought they were beasts.
This was no building.
This was Misht’aul, the Pilgrim-Golem of Regret, stitched from basilicas, bastions, basil leaves, and bone. It walks not with feet, but with forgotten names. The red tendrils are memory, or maybe veins, or maybe the trails left by a hundred thousand “should-have-beens.”
Every part of it still sings.
Not songs.
Warnings.
One voice chants of love unreciprocated.
Another catalogues sins that haven’t happened yet.
A third just screams the word “again.”
We paint it because it keeps walking toward us.
Even when we’re asleep.
Especially when we’re asleep.