I see the Moonsong, a specific tale, one told many times, thru many mouths - something I wish to document and explore, as strains of divinity exist in the folds of these worlds, of which I have seen of thruout my life.
Such findings of the sorts were begining to see light years ago on similar webspace, since decrepit. For now and forever heart draws here, something beautiful and crude.
~
Então, a catalogue...
Opening, a single line hangs from the ceiling.
There are, premonitions, of this room again. Legs are crossed and I smell of faint cool air. Void of epicentre there is newlife. She moves with each breath. A single line hangs from the ceiling.
Apon such divining line, I grip to a wraparound. Places are matched and, I am gently pressed against some stiffness in the air. Slowly tilting my head out, everso cautiously, the outermost shell runs gently against my right eye. What tends to be though over, or outright ignored, crept into focus; I can see hours north
,but- there is no northside, there never was. or, maybe a sliver, no more than that.
I touch dry earth and remember where I am .
& through the long hallway... what? There are no clicking sounds or firm spaces to be had; like tracing paper split in two, its warm levity, a humming, and sure, maybe a kind of clicking noise of some descript- but not often. In this space she said "cupwine, greenhouse rooms, or, home somekind of thief, maybe a grasping, & a holding besides minutes, a wraparound" - January 8, 140a, 640p
