🪔...| fell in the middle fields blades of grass accompanied his wings spread frightfully unpleasant, also brimful lacerations. He wandered the lichen-crusted moors, him thoughts a palimpsest of half-remembered joy and cloying regret. He spoke in aphorisms,
quoted from book no one read.
│ police line ── point rule
│ customize ── ready made
│ art'e work ── statement.
“ He longed not for love
but for ataraxia—a tranquil
state far removed from
the cacophony of hope.”