In Now’s black waters, burn the stars of Then.
I've made sparks to light the constellations of
my web. In the web of always present, our past
and future selves meet on razor edge.
There was a girl who floated away in dreams,
and then a woman who did the magic that
suggested itself. Aeon rises from the rites
of instinct. Bloody way, I marked, that
labyrinth of cuts. The clowns are a warning.
We should not fail to recognize the swell of
a very big wave.
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