where the sun hits the page. or my hand. or my eye. brown, the color of earth and connection. brown like the very flesh of our mother soil. or the deep emerald green of grasses and shrubs and stained glass leaves.
i am here today.
iridescent. shifting under the sunshine. remembering how impossibly far away it is. feeling a chill in the air and remembering we are not so far as to be all ice. not so close as to be engulfed in fire. not yet.
the coming of decay. the coming of depletion. the coming of scorching obliteration.
the christians think the world will end in fire.
it will.
and those who think it will end in ice are also right. the slow extinguishing of the light. the drifting so far away we never find warmth again.
what then does it mean to look into the sky? time-traveling sight. utterly at the whim of the stuff within which we float.
it is all circular. or a spiral. or a web.
but certainly not a singular line.
at least not all the time.
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