At this edge wolves roam, cells divide,
and this dimension starts to spill
into the next. It's what I wanted.
Though I'm hardly prepared,
it seems.
Simply existing is a
long drawn out stretching
of time, unpalatable, dry
cracked. Maybe there's colors or gifts
in the stretched cracks of time...
if I only had an arm that could
reach, or the energy it would take
to move it. Miles away from light,
from that place that sings. From the
integrated whole. Just a hole, echoing
what I'm not even sure of
... was real.
