"Six.
Beauty."
The past unfolds like a mandala, and I can see all the places where the patterns have been split, broken. I can see all the cracks in the filigree, the lines that don't glow as they should. I can see how much needs repair, and how much work it will be. I am angry at myself for letting myself get to this point, even as I know it's all repairable. I shouldn't have let any of this go this long.
Six. Ascending or descending?