It was the finest city in the world. People came for miles to witness its beauty. The buildings were glazed mandalas of innumerable color, shapened by architects and artisans that sang hallelujah to the heavens. Kama sutra poses were sculpted in relief on tanned temples between ceramic towers. Majolica the blessed, Majolica the naked, landlocked jewel in the Vanilla Mountains. The people were free, inequality was low, education was permanent, war abolished. It was ruled by women.
Until one day the men came, and it was destroyed. Glass shattered in malachite shards, beauty parlors obliviated by violence. They pillaged, they raped, they overthrew the matriarchs. Majolica the flayed, Majolica the defiled, sunken ship of broken treasures in a sea of sorrow. All that survived were words, a single book unearthed from the rubble. It spoke of a utopia that nobody believed could exist, that gradually spread to the corners of the world fringed by the old order. It was the story of her existence, that lost city which honored truth, and therefore beauty. Her tendrils crawled out of the crypt of history, wrapped around every modern city, choked the engineered throat, rose from the dead. Emancipated by words, they were her victory march.
You can't kill an idea. You can't learn more from victory than defeat.
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