The pub was empty now. The Kameleon sat in the middle of the room, stacking the chairs and tables against the walls; to the undiscerning eye, it would appear the Karma Kameleon was scared, creating this boundary of furnishings like a crazed loon in the midst of a nuclear apocalypse. But the Kameleon had their own machinations, scanning the objects with its ultraviolet visor, spectral energies bouncing from the black glass, to adjust the positioning of the objects down to the picometer, shifting individual atoms. This is how one constructs a whorling sigil. This is how one advances on the perfection that is pyroglyphic mandala. This is how one moves beyond the constraints of doodling on the ground with your own urine.
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