and this, she said, this is everything, her right arm reaching in the direction of the great & the good & the way down to the (un)burgeoning river while her left stretched out to carry mine. that was in the last days on the threshold of the storm season, back when she still carried her arms, back when they themselves possessed the ability to reach. when they could follow in what vector her words let out – and so the tire-dead asphalt unfolded.

and what was it that unto her retained meaning?

when she spoke it was my voice; when she reached to take off her skin she wore mine underneath. none had ever seen her honest features before and still neither have i.

this, she reiterated.

who? but already she had turned away, hands still reaching in their opposite diagonal. the limb of her left suspended itself in air as it unwound from its host, fingers into claws wrapping around my own. it had all turned cold, as the blood was rushing back to the body, to where she walked, unsilent, indefinable.

this. what was this?

and to what end carried the stale earth its beings on its spined back, cranking out rotations while she abandoned her ability to grasp what is new forever? something of incandescence; of what was it her invisible lips preached?

everything, her resonance had declared over the earth and the seven seas. everything is this.