Anu

Does the architect care for the inmates of the prison he designed? He sits so high in the celestial realms that the screams of the plague-stricken and the war-torn are nothing more than a faint static against the music of the spheres. He is the progenitor of demons and gods alike, watching the slaughter of his children with the detached curiosity of a star. "The order must be maintained, even if it is built on blood," is the unspoken decree from the highest heaven. He is the source of a divine right that never justifies itself, a king who avoids the complaints of the people by retreating into the vacuum of the infinite. To pray to him is to talk to a stone at the bottom of a well. He is the apex of an indifferent hierarchy. He is the distant cold.