Clouds run between me and the sun. One moment I’m warm and charged; the next, cold and alarmed. When the world becomes too drab and burly to act or create, I play Civilization in bed until the batteries die a sudden death. My fullscreen maneuverings for world domination don’t allow for low-battery warnings. It’s like that, warm moments go cold. Suddenly.
Spacetime runs between Sun and its Singularity; one moment it’s warm and charged; the next, well… the next might be some distant next yet to come, or far in the past. So say we all. So say we all. I say I’ll be dust. I say I’ll be playing Civilization, or Torch Light, or I’ll mash the pedals ongoing through the dark, dying treelined paths, over dirt more real and meaningful than my skin. Than my teeth. Than my brain, always thinking. Take my words. Take my words and put them…
Next to the dying fires rest the happiest travelers. They sleep directly on the ground, feeling that which is truest: Earth. The warm and cold of it. The supple galbe sweeping supportively from bare feet to head. They ride the changes, naturally.
K. Shawn Edgar | Incumbent | Mutable | Shadowy