The blue-black sludge of time, or perhaps it’s green and dark, this primordial swampland, the life it breeds, exuding itself into myriad entrails and forms. Its whisper crawls at the back of every skull, lives on in the troubled memories of spinal columns. Amphibians drag themselves over beds of dank stone. How many suns have wandered these dim corridors, small and afraid and alone? What eye marked their passage?
As below, so above.
At the edge of the mire, figures shrouded by mist chatter and laugh. Their howls turn to dust and nebulas, spin into stars and worlds. In strange aeons, they sleep and dream of the dissolution of the wheel, the errant Word hovering about them, a parasite in search of a home. Waters ebb and flow, brackish lapping drawn by no moon. Unseen wings beat against the black. Time is the sin of eternity; whose crime, then, the eternal? Wreckage compounded by wind, an angel looking back in horror. Teeth before, teeth after, teeth at the center of it all. The storm leaves nothing, takes all, assimilates the oily essence, excavates night from night. Scorpions crawl on broken glass. There is no peace in the heart of silence, no silence in the heart of light: only the slashing beaks of crows in corn, Persephone descending, the winter’s open jaws. No mercy seat lurks, waiting: only the hell of the orbital, the nightmare of return. There is no drain to circle, no Cygnus, no escape, no outside: nothing but restless chains, dancing dust, desolate light.
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