Your steps through the temple are ingrained from a lifetime's repetition, the gestures of respect to each god's statue on its plinth as automatic as breathing: the Pilot. The Lovers, handcuffed wrist to wrist. The twelve smaller, barely distinguished figures of the Crew. The robed and facelessly hooded depths of Doom in the Walking Aspect. The perfectly level scales and blindfolded eyes of Choosing the Side of the Oppressor. The twisted stick-figure of Wisdom.
- he/him
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in reply to @ImpressionsOfDetail's post:
Damn it I can only think of the cargo cult in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome for this prompt.
Stop it, brain!
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