The History of Writing (V.)

....There was a peculiar joy in the feeling of being defenestrated as Sisyphus cascaded down the flesh-insensitive depths of the sky, the fast dissolution of the aether like violin wire melting in its own heat and absorbed by his corporeal body as it plunged through mile after mile of some anonymous Nor-Equatorial portion of the Atlantic Ocean. Grayblack skyscape of an older world, half forgotten; in its relent to become ancient released its soul in precise detail. 

....Swimming, swimming, swimming downwards, inhaling the surfeit of wind, coughing on the thick gusts of it as they pushed and steamed into his lungs. He felt, slightly, like a walrus that'd been abandoned by its pride and left to roam crazily through the entirety of existence or like a father in search of a son. Earthly, divine, becoming human. Graceful in its stubborn resolve and product of the oldest ambition. The hierarchy of the world undone. Soon, soon, the water. The water, now.  



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