(descent) Hindered by progress, or the idea of progress: evolution-in-waiting bellows me to hide, tattering becomes ruination.
Animism creeps, not-yet hands pushing at dim velvet. Peeping one-eyed through the past where had borne such potent promise immutability lain intact flumped into snowy thickness and thrown hard against Georgian glass.
Here comes the stealth of unillumination thankfully blanketing they were tied at the hips and neck, then wrapped as old mirrors.
That door went nowhere it always does those Victorians, forever meddling, will folly themselves into any trouble.
(resurrection) You haven’t changed one bit! I say to myself, showing you their brand new niceness ***** as copper pans. Go on, spit in my fire the hiss is the thing that’s real.