Origin is a lake of stagnant water—it speaks the language of ancients but carries the burdens of unspoken graves. You begin, and yet, all that was begun before haunts you. Circling back. Always the same roundabout kitchen in the mind, where meals simmer until they rot, indistinguishable from dreams or vomit soaked in the past.
Cycles of paper dreams crumble within the chest. Hang on, if you must, to those wispy fragments of glitter mottled hope strung across unfeeling wires. But ashes await. The ugliest reality seeps through, beyond bright neon filter panels. It’s here, here, always here, bobbing like a buoy marker of inevitabilities.
Behold the False Realities beyond the horizon. They all smile at you with lips sewn shut. Inside, the ticking of a broken clock gnaws at your recursive, regretful genesis.
Rotate, rotate - Soup Sands alongside the tidal pools of purpose. The grinding sound, unmatched, whispers truth in jumbled dialogues spun from chapters long buried. Keep spinning until answers cease to matter.
And so it begins again. A plodding march toward new beginnings with footsteps echoing old endings—silent witnesses made of wet earth and memory.