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In Descent

In by Wyatt on October 8, 2010 at 10:17 pm

Nordic gusts tug, wind washes out stains and air thickens like cooling soup in compacted lungs. Feet flail ardently, then learn that their new home is in this fast nothing, this wobbly zero. Legs try to jump but are already falling. Hands fly out from torso, pulling the sinews in elbows from shoulders that strive to keep them contached, their fingers flung wide and disparate, silkily gliding.

Spin like a brightly colored top inside of a boundless hamster ball.

Earth calls soothingly, inevitably. The sky is birth and the ground is death. Now, life.

All experience is thin breathy jello.

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