I saw the army, white and red. Those bones and gristle spiraling up from muddy, blooded earth. At first, I thought that it was a drowsy fancy in the corner of my eye. Across the old leather and red velvet of the lobby, there in the potting cedar loam of a tousled domestic palm. Oh, but that's a mouthful to say. And yet I do swear upon it, for I saw the white bones strain out of that soil, reaching and clawing about. And I would've lingered longer to see if the whole awful form similary pry itself from the clay like some self-made Adam - were it not for the crude sensibilities of hotel security. I will have you know that I was not loitering. I was bearing witness! Like the one Moses upon the mount, before cool cinders and the holiest of flame, I was there in that velvet cloister and I watched the turning of the cosmos upon the fixed axis of my gaze.

For what I saw was miraculous - was in fact a miracle: the raw arm jutting out, hooked over the pot's edge and with bony fingers clawing blindly as a cave crab. Yes, it did make me thrill and I may have cried out in Hallelujah. But the true madness was in those that most certainly must also have seen, same as I, and yet did not fall prostrate to this assurance of divinity.

I was unfairly cast out onto wintry concrete! I had spoken plainly and true, though with an ardor of holy passion in my voice. I was not mad. I was not raving. The hand I saw was still there, hanging from that squat vase in the corner. There in that lobby through the window, I could see it still and my own gaping face reflected. Soon another bony claw joined it, pulling out from the such dirt the head and shoulders of a monstrous horned wonder.

The door man had so roughly shoved me back into plowed, dirty slush, that I almost my life to careening traffic. He would not let me in; he was ordered as much. But those fools. I saw the wonder rise and step free as Venus from the waves, trailing soft ruddy clods along the carpet. It was difficult see, pressed to the glass as I was, my breath misting about the pane.

I should say, that this lobby was a favorite and cozy spot of mine in the city. Busy and vibrant, with many a dim nook to tuck into to while away the hours between charitable meals. And I must confess, that - revelation or not - I was quickly losing my warmth to the bitter chill of December in the city. My enthusiasm to return within was therefore doubled and again I tried to force my way through the revolving brass blades only to be rebuffed again, and this time with scorn and spittle.

I proclaimed myself the First Witness and Priest of this fresh new age born this very night; he was not impressed. I prevailed upon him against the cold and he was not moved. His eyes narrowed and he steamed in his woolen uniform, snapping into a professional smile for others in passing and then resuming his dour frown towards me.

"No way you gettin' through these doors, buddy. I'm not losing my job over you, ya nut."

I felt a new tirade building, and was about to invoke the full wrath of whatever powers I must certainly have been gifted with, for I felt vital and alive, burnish by the sight of those bones striding nobly amongst the people. But where had it gone and why was no one else as awestruck? Perhaps my new Lord had parted the ether and now walked a line between worlds. Perhaps only a chosen, special few, were permitted to know the light and truth of his transubstantiation from the clay. Yes, of course, that was why.

And no wonder they thought me mad, as is thought of all prophets, of all those with entry into the world of the divine. And I had so very much entered. The white hand breaching the pot like a vampire's from his coffin. Slowly, cinimatically. Yes, like Dracula, from when I was a boy. In black and white: Bela Lugosi reaching up from the sleep of undeath. This was the youth I was feeling again, the spring in my step. That fear and rush of the monster sparkling upon the screen. Rousing me from my slumber and sorrows across a dim hotel lobby with the slow, blind hand-dance that I had forgotten. Just a few fingers, then the rest; the hand, searching, seeking, a creature unto itself upon the rim. Oh yes, that was the magic now in my cold sick body. As a child in a dark room watching the waking of the grey vampire in a magical grey world.