Words had themselves eaten into by the plutonic looping inside any fruit he'd been munching on till the day he woke up at down and walked 333 miles to a bay, and maybe a pond or two along the route barefoot

That palatableness of timbre of a voice in the ears Like that of a fawning hawk soaring up and do be dub Drolling over his own gawk Sincere, friendly, fierce, and predatory

I am a time traveler who wandered into a Southern Dark Arts festival where graceful people strummed on guitars, and cried in angelic voices—which felt like a lullaby since 'twas all nothing but a latent space phantasy