There is a hollowness to temples that I enjoy. The smooth white stone floors and endless smooth white walls reaching the massive domed ceiling that must be hung from the sky, it’s so far out of reach. The walls have the same glowing quality of the moon, so finely polished and sparkling. The ceiling depicts the different events of the ancient texts and the phases of the moon are cut in skylights in the sanctuary. The scale is considerably more modest as we walk towards the dining area, the ceiling a less impressive height of an Oak tree. Tall and majestic, but not otherworldly. The walls, still smooth and white, but dotted with official portraits of Immaculate Mother’s from long ago. The fashion unchanged with time, white robe after white robe, the same serene expression. Two doors open and we arrive at the dining hall. The long table is already full of white robed priestesses, perfectly silent standing like pawns on a chessboard behind their chairs, unable to move a space forward. No
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