open source: blank Page,
the tails are writing themselves dragging across the floor boards. There are no footsteps, just the sliding grit against polished wood. It comes hunched over, bearing books of worlds trapped within the lenses of glass, bound wishes and dreams awaiting the next audience. Legends drag behind the figure, accessories to the tails, unwrapped and echoing in Hallways.
Black and blue psyche bruises fabricated art in ebbs and flows of generations reaching across an oceanic Time to pull themselves out of riptides or into the Mere.
Tendrilled voices seeping through kinks as tailed-percussion pulses in the background: where colored noises meet. Well beneath the surface, storms and floods go unrealized. The sounds of the DEEP envelop like the womb; we are held.
Pre-birth, un-alive, undead… in holding, in waiting, in transit, inaccessible.
There is violence in the living. A gasp for air and the sounds of drum-beat footsteps. It approaches tall with no bearings.
This is where we journey on far and wide to return to an Open Source, a blank page.