ouranos is pulling a thread in and out of the pinhole stars as earth slips it's orbit - atlas dreams of endless oceans, waves and his planet sleeps on driftwood, careening quietly from its perch, boundless in its fleeing fall from tired shoulders and arms. the planet sifts through stardust and it's occupants rifle through reason, fiddle with contrition. what information was misread - who's to blame for the falling sky?
time moves through amber and sap, too slow to count with blinking digital numbers or those in ardent analog. why do the clocks' hands have icy fingers? glaciers call the seconds years and so "time" is no more - the sun cannot thaw the hands that push the past away and pull the future to articulate itself. the present is collateral to the two in their eternal twirl through non-being. the duet becomes a triad and the triad: a singularity, but it is not a violent transition - no, it's edges are soft. they are soft. the mind calms at this softness.