d2

patterned with the movement, i agree that we have been cut apart by design. in this
mile the end relentlessly refuses to draw near. a bend contains within it all potential for
collapse: you linger on the edge of the shaping board, keep time with distant watches.
partisan, hopeless, a fleet of roving trenches could set things straight, adrift in the
expanding. collected at a distance even taste disintegrates into a bud.

i don’t mean to misrepresent these stages. drawn apart, discovered, wake breath softly
failing. the representative disfigures, maybe unknown in the sphere of a true guiding
lantern. roundness swathing hollowness, ache acquiring true form. dark inner recesses
shudder against red golden flight. down solemn in the earth’s quietest phrasings.