Grant me first this raging fever, give me this searing in my blood. Fire rises, up through each root and stalk. Each burn another little story. Another turn towards the urge to isolate. Grace is a glacial favor, so slow and deliberate as to seem unaware of the time. The work of the world is to bloom and reach. The work of this fire is to burn the world into embers.
The sky is alive with the seething of translucent wings, a sea of transitions alight upon the very air. The autumn sun falls like soul struck music, thick and insistent beyond the melody, that movement of feeling that always hints of meaning to the heart. The necessity of change glistening upon each skin, the curled leaf and sad-eyed depths of heaven. The words cling and sparkle while the world gives up all the implicit ghosts.
The story begins with the world on fire. The story begins with the ubiquity of days. Every dawn evinced evidence of the eternal nature of the enduring, proof that even change is a thing in passing, a facet glinting upon the long slow reveal of the wheel that is forever. I meet each day again extinguished, outside of reason or explanation. I meet each night with the dull certainty of every spent prayer and lost password. I am the dregs of these bouts of identity, the remnants of some lost translation. Some placeholder for a place that is gone, the proof of ghosts as the chains they drag and drag. I am cold and invisible, watching the world burn on without me.
