Moore-ish. Heaving in this white flesh that breaks on sight and gathers itself at horizons. I have bits of it here - a motley collection of broken things and cold-cuts: that grip, those fingers, a stomach, strands of hair, not enough, and deprivation is becoming aggravating. Like an infection that creeps increasingly deep under your skin until it is wriggling around your insides and chanting 'More! More! More!' and 'Feed us more of that flesh!' And I have nothing to give them, these hungry worms! Well-fed, we dripped from branch to branch and slithered around tombs of drunk gods, laughing, giggling, we pooled cool sand in our hands and crevices and swallowed soil like we were performing, Dionysian play-acting among the feathers and the leaves. What indulgence. The sun that cracked open your window and cast itself in a thick tread across your badly-plastered ceiling seemed weak and dull. The sea that lapped and tugged at the sand around our feet seemed tired. We ****** the energy from the earth! We took it and hid it. I know that now to be our undoing.

We jump from isle to sacred isle, finding more, and losing more. Islands of time, multiplying at the horizon.