It's in the horror of the finality of endings and not the human variety that is an individual end to a species repetition but the end of a species, the erasure and loss of an entire line of evolution. There were glittering things, bleeding things, many of them and slowly less of them until weren't there already none of them? The towers rise above swamped cities and someone you'll never see walks between gold-embroidered walls. Whatever's made is made to be undone by one hand or none by a process perhaps one not met. Cities don't fall they melt into unfamiliar forms. It's the one who've called them home who suffer and suffering is the worst part about life the best part about death. Isn't the year old enough already aren't everyone tired enough already. To say things correctly or precisely. To put on airs. Then. It's too late for the air anyway isn't it too late for us. Then. The forms repeat even if you do not. The forms repeat when you do not. I repeat as a pulse within the forms but this is not a comfort. Nor shelter. Is there either? Less. For anyone. Anywhere.
Mostly just to have something like a waypoint. A method of finding that is distinct within a cloud where each piece is distinct. Something like hopeless, though not quite (water all appears to be same but is not). "The ocean is another country." Like the desert is another country: a flat plain of sand, rocks and scrub brush can also become known. It's a matter of taking time.
To put a hand against the image in the glass and listen for no answer.
Things point tentatively toward other things without any intention. Like this, barely asking. An ask. An ask to take. A touch that keeps itself and a memory of breath. And then something else. And then something else.