Trapped inside the contours of your own pallid skull, you begin your schemes anew.
Imagine Byzantine tunnels (awakening), hopping across the smouldering gridiron of mundane circumstance carved across your synapses (contemplating). Wantonly, abruptly—edges charred, now and forever. Angles for the sake of angles—your meals (hundreds) and travels (thousands) and love-partners (priceless) just pale shades of separation.
You breach it, again (coax auxiliary synapses) with a stare. A gesture, directed at the sky above your head (singular-sol system, adequate bio-sphere). Rolling shoulders fit to punch out giants. Dreading the gods that wait beyond your sight and touch and sheer unbridled contemplation (there is life). Because there are gods with your name on their judgements (beyond rest, beyond sleep). They don't float, they seep; they don't wait, they exist. Spiting you, in spite of you.
The scheme waits, flounders across that cruel gridiron with the singed edges of forced habit (proliferate). And consume, and engulf and engorge (and proliferate)—
—and live. Shrug your shoulders, kick the duvet away. Straighten your nightshirt and stand. Creak for a moment, the spring air licking at your waistline and the curl of your shins. Stare into the still-settling dawn, the ambient drone of the mopeds and bazaar-carts and express trains crammed with the dead-awake. It's all—
The tunnels are misdirected, the gridiron pointless but grounded. Faithless and flawless and utterly depraved—enforced by waking and reflection and hunger and (proliferate) with every impulse, every tap and link and call to an ether you can't really describe. Wouldn't want to, when you can (proliferate) because it's—
—stupidly simple. A vocation without an office: a title without a position. Figures without accounts. Nothing to worry about, paid with everything worth doing. In full, on demand, by the pound. Looming in the skies outside your windows are—
Invading. Spores wrap their claws around the upper atmosphere and tug, hard. Sink anti-oxygen enzymes deep into the sweet spring air, invading the mouths of billions. Suppressing any screams the populace may have had. Extinguishing any records of your passing. It swells into contours that block the gridiron, momentarily. What sparks died forever in that moment of submission? That defeat as seven billions souls died and—
—your blouse emerged from the wash, unscathed—
You are nameless—
—you are faceless. A destroyer of worlds—
a slave to routine?
Back. Wringing out what I can.
<work> Scraps, "arachnae.we" disaster arcs
<words> "Rogues"--George R.R. Martin+Gardner Dozois (editors), "California"--Edan Lepucki
<noise> "No One Moves, No One Gets Hurt"--Bedouin Soundclash
<food+drink> Homemade pho. Dinner+breakfast.
<quotes> "Let us die, with music"--unnamed Russian lunar lander director, 1969.