III.

Al, my friend from Neenyo

Droughts suck the marrow from the collective of man. Iconic handshakes behind closed doors, detached social systems propelled by the momentum of unraveling civilizations, ravenous circles of circuitous self-sabotaging; conscious, but sleepwalking in the misty bogs of an unfulfilled longing. No torch to warm the night, no comfort in the dying light. Damned to the path, a starving basilisk. The tooth-like needle on the record of a played-out threnody, entrenched in a rift of loathing and longing. Melody transmutes to malady, puretones to incongruous discord. The echoes of savages from past wrinkles in time, hearken the present.

A reaper stalks the threshold of fields once bountiful; now wrought by time and indifference. Suits and sweaty business socks stamper about in the machine. Each cog, shiny and lubricated, spinning faster than the next, overclocking until combustion, then conflagration. Each piece unaccountable, deferring responsibility up the chain; a whole too big to fail, an amoeba too gluttonous to fast. 

Here I sleep motionless, seething in the gallows of familiar stone tombs. With each solar revolution, enthalpy grows in vibration. Waters inflame and swell to the disharmony of the discordant conductors. The blood of man – of striking resemblance to seawater – will upwell from once mild gyres and rain down to quench the mouths of those whose eyes glow red in the night. Irony is not lost in the drought of an ocean planet. But yet the phalanx of barnacled thinktanks, wriggling deceptions on bought out electromagnetic transmissions through copper, planting seeds of doubt that blossom into gnarled branches of subterfuge. A tree growing too fast for its roots to support, collapse inevitable. Limbs will break, and trunks will deracinate in the jarring wind of a humility unrecognized. Oyarsa in absentia.

Tell me, will the optical depth of sapphire skies shift as bone powder coalesces into currents of breath in the airglow of diffusing star light? Can you empathize with the feeling of the eternal agony of a conscious, amorphous plasma cell suspended in the perpetual suffering of repetitious moments of core-pulsating, life-shattering, manic bursts of madness? A dementia defined by the scales of ouroborous, slicing through each nerve fiber one at a time, into the endless echo of perpetuity. Like the internal cold in the waning breaths of hypoxia, the shivering isles of pristine southern lands form a dam on the brink of collapse. A shift in ancient cycles, riding the undulating snake of histories unheeded. Tall tales in fiction radiate brightly under the cutting eye of objective realism. A speck of dust is a mountain to bacteria; an intestinal biome of city-like proportions.

Temperate measures have fallen beneath the umber of caskets long forgotten, devoured by cooled earth in the death throes of waning gravity. It is within the grey mist that ghosts wither and die into false manifestations of lives not truly lived. The howl of an ill wind that blows no minds; shed this skin in the blanket of night as it nurtures a longing that could never be fulfilled or understood – held in a throng of absent light, moving in angles, solidifying and now piercing from all directions. Dissolved by light, now long gone, adrift in onyx rivers unbounded by any sort of natural law. Everything in nothing, solace in the void.

The great heat sink becomes the veil masking Great Old motives. Shortwaves enter through refracting ripples, pillars of ethereal light diminish as depth unfurls cerulean shadows. Photons engulfed into returning valence states, radiation vectors inflect as charged particles are bombarded. Efficiency of the energy budget is not lost in the chaos, but scavenged by a higher order. Light and water, I often question their motives...

Enter within me to excite, and excite I will my neighbor, to no end, to know end... I will carry this weary traveler up and away, to places of lesser. Those of same design mimic and follow, meniscus forms on tensioning contours. We gather in the coming storm, we become the storm, we are the storm. We fall, we fall together. At the rim of the world, we shed as tears, and dream of the waves we will one day become again. We fall, and as we fall together, we purge all. We hear no past, and see no future, we are, as we've always been, a fundamental duality, a nature with no memory.

Binaural murmurs feed a mind long famished; tethered to stem, skull, and skin. 
In the annals of the cobalt corridor, 

it's frightening how discomforting the privacy of a mind can be...

-C-