no. this is somewhere to be. this is all you have, but it's still something. streets and sodium lights. the sky, the world. you're still alive.


THE PAST IS MADE

OF STATIC IMAGES, DISTORTED MEMORIES, DEMENTED NOSTALGIA.

there is a grief in you. vast and wide—wider than the skies that hold the ship you once called home, and further from your reach than even the dawn between your fingertips. ( far, far east—chasing the passage of the rising sun—is a ship named the dreadwyrm. she sings in perfect fifths, aether & faith streaming from her towering figurehead,AND THEN? WHAT THEN, BROTHER? )you do not recognize the man who looks at you in the mirror. he moves as you move—smiles as you smile, blinks as you blink—but above all, he is a stranger-thing that looks back at you with your own eyes. but there is not much that you do recognize,as if you'd woken from some long, forgotten dream. as if the world had moved on without you, long ago. ( that's okay. that you are here is solace enough—and despite everything, you must have faith that you remain the same. )

all you remember are slivers and fragments—flickers and snatches of songs and memories buried so deeply into your marrow that they've become a part of you.( your story had ended years ago with a soft exhale & a prayer: throat-garroted & rot-slickened & slavering at your feet. this is not how prayers should sound, but you have never known any other way. so you reinvent yourself. so you drag your story forward, odysseus on his ship—a dead thing that doesn’t quite know that it is dead. you should know better.... you do know better. beneath it all, you are terrified: terrified to forget and terrified to remember. )still, the world goes on. still, your heart keeps beating—and for as long as your lungs draw breath, you will continue to love this world ( the skies above and the seas below and the sun and the wind through your fingertips ). for as long as you can. for as long as you must.