• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 04
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I know nothing of line and form
the fine interplays of skin and shadow
Why, that single tendril of hair, those smoky clouds in the sick blue sky.
Composition is a mystery, perspective but a magic trick.
A brush in my hand? Mere instrument of destruction. A pitchfork in yours, inheritance.
Accusation in your eyes, your judgment merited. Decades of tending the land, that fierce mistress, waking before dawn in the frozen dead air, longer than I have lived.
I sit and lament the loss of internet connection, and you, you harbor sorrows sharp as spires.
I shall love, find my own constant companion. I shall live, locking moments into thousands of tiny squares, laughter and sunrises. You will wait, clutching always your three pronged livelihood.
I shall suffer loss, enough to split my small beating heart, tissue and blood, unprotected by oil paint. I shall expire, a small fire extinguished. And as the coals smolder, you will stare still.

You are eternal, a joyless, joyless fate.