Ears twinge, stumbling toward a distant clamor. Looming heat weights down any effort to reveal temporal source. First in sound and later sight; still obscured, it seems to beckon then retreat. Some animal locomotion dividing consciousness from perception knows not to whom the chasm belongs. It draws itself wider and the air breathes a tired requiem. Curiosity drowns in the wake.
I'd like to write more. I'd like to do a lot of things.
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