A large glacial forest – I have not seen it before, moss covered it invisibly. Gods to earth – surviving scripts of mental oders – not sure exactly how big, but big, for shoulders. He is thriving within but mainly still lonely. She craves fire and patterns in the shadows of his clavicle. She craves the melting and the rot. And the frost. To discover only hours later, the star shaped birthmark. It existed of two shapes on the nape. Deception of the eleven.

In the faraway trees, immortal mischief. They play where there are changelings. Middle orb and Asp. Drinking arsenic flavoured seltzer. I can feel its memories as I walk closer – I can feel its invisible voice in my stomach as I approach her. She tells me her name…. Fetzel. “Maaaaaaaaaoooooooonnnnnnnnkkkknnnnn”… I can’t fully grasp her name, a stone on the mountain, liquid ascension, still frozen and filled with the current culture. The current song-wound as a postulate. The current, itself as a cave.

The people who visit will never come. Distracted by their choice to flavour air by themselves. Bewildered as they fade. Arisen in the mind of the moon. A kind of flame once begotten. In the depths of a circular monogram.

Shutting the door I gaze upon nothing. I shall never again gaze upon its anything. Making a path toward bodies double its size. A low whisper torn and pricked by various insects. From under the bark they crack with intensity within the molting tree. The wanderer who wields a painted stick and plucks.