• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 05
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The littlest one crowns
Death’s ziggurat, it of
berries and bits to live. The
greatest, who devoured
the most worms, greedy
and a-strut, vain in its
iridescence, bullying
those below, is no
foundation, only base.

Seethes a great, endless
storm. At any given
moment, some feed
on the worms of desire,
some cower in bowers,
some throw wings
over their young,
and some dare winds,
thundering lightning.

All fall, it must be said,
for all forget. Once fallen,
what? All moments are
given. If born into the air,
does one dream of flight?
What further freedom
eludes? What does a witch
who needs no broomstick
want for but everlasting life?