Berg

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A pawn in an incomplete game uncomplicated by black static madness, their blood loss grimace once left you tongue-tied like blind serpents revelling in eternal shallow madness.

Madness’ descent might pause on this: a salvation that would appear
in a single kiss that’d had no reason to exist until this moment. And once it did, once it does, it would and will see through all this.

Through all this, and after spending too long in the half-life, you reach out to claim that which would make you whole. Geiger-counting your blessings, you undulate and beat, finding yourself pulsating and clicking like morse – no, remorseful – code on a dry ocean.

Oceans are ready to embrace and replace; for as you’d already sunk, so would you prove yourself The Unsinkable, bound and unbound for the surf-state where stars would board and disembark at once.

Once under, twice over, you would backstay after coming up for air; air being the thing that filled the glass, whether in totality or in a lesser role of topping-up the space.

Space time, or time and space, or Spime – however you label it, the glass is always full. This made it neither half-full nor half-empty. For at least evermore.

Evermore, the specifics of whyness depend upon the vantage point of the glass-looker-atter. So Look. Look at the glass. And see. And drink.

Drink the liquid water and crunch the solid; the glass is still full.

You are still full.
You are the air.
Breathe yourself in.

 

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