• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 05
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In the airless air, a mote
Barely breathing
Dust in sunlessness,
In the space between the sea and the sky, between even the surface and itself

This womb is without pulse and hollow, it suffocates,
It withers reaching root-tendrils like fingers curling, empty
Thirsting for dirt, drowning above water

You think you are God
But you won’t fill a breath.