There is only one shadow capable of exploding every probability. It yawns now, supposedly watching over our passage through this ovoid sun. Yes, the forecast flickered into sand, it still lingered in the crowd of teeth. The metastases of hope, a master key never mentioned in the sacred text we'd been searching eons for, only to find its shards knew our every thought. The screaming would only grant us one wish, however, one chance to remake ourselves with thin, wiry spumes of mist. We belong to and speak for the beautiful, autonomous racket, its rusting bulk acting as a threshold onto muscles that lurch amidst the shrapnel. Icicles eat the scenery even as it guides us to where we are forbidden entry.
1 comment:
lovely stuff
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