A neo-Aztec, pseudo-Judaic apocalyptic cult approached me for some technical assistance. They wanted flash drives in the form of tarot cards. When I went to submit them, in person, I found myself at the center of some kind of ritual. They demanded that I set each of the tarot cards down in turn, in an appointed place, each along with one of the fifty state quarters. When I got close to the end of the major arcana cycle—the Sun, Judgment, the World—I vomited, but somehow I vomited out of the pocket of my robe. I couldn't finish the laying-out ritual, but it didn't matter, because the priest pointed behind me, over my head, and we all turned to look. He was pointing to the mountain that presided over us, where they planned to rebuild the Temple. There was no Western Wall, no Dome of the Rock, but between the two peaks was the obvious space where the Temple had been, moaning in its silence