Wednesday, June 13, 2018


Mathilde ~ Carel Willink

Out we fly, our cargo crude and underdeveloped, ill prepared for the prospect of quantum eternity, this vessel’s fragile skin a dancefloor for particles of ancient light; scarred by supersonic grains of dust. Take-off and landing fees apply.

The sun warms one side of my body only; I harbour a sense of loss at the fact that I have not been included in that which is now being discussed after that fact.
What does this tell me about their regard for me?
I am, and always will be, the outsider; even as my crust, too thin not to be hurt by the actions of others, develops scar-tissue to be baked hard but brittle in the furnace of time.

Our new home is back-lit by the passing of relative time; for while we’ve been travelling mere days, we have been gone for centuries, lost from the minds of the immortals we left in memory. Fertile ground awaits our fragile seed to mend.

Tales for an attention deficit world

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