SOLASTALGIA

iii.

7.

Turn skimming stones superdense upon launch; tie yourself into splintered knots as you attempt to hurl them back into the source. Rest in soil, drift with current. Throw yourself away; give your parts back through a clumsy process of dismemberment.

Groundwater and freshwater turn indistinguishable; the dissolution of boundaries corrupts. Just stop bearing your own senses; fucking break because your world is so pungent of imbalance that it's blunted your perception. Ennui etches sad infinities into cooked days; your density has increased exponentially.

The asteroid clusters underneath your ribs have accumulated tar. Nonchalance is such a flimsy safeguard. Black holes are forming beneath your fingernails; every touch drips with the question-marked penultimate to a paradigm shift - one that may dissolve your higher self and form inconceivable amalgamations out of whatever gets left behind.