Slow like planets I’ll come, as certain as glaciers and disease a lovely plague upon this land of fungus and food-bearing trees. There is an age to matricide. 300 million years ago, a paramecium split and split again. That was when we invented death. It has been several decades since that formation of the stars and the felicity of orbits maligned into recognizable shapes: a crab, a pair of brothers sharing a life. One day I’ll ascend to where the hydrogen obey me and the slight edge of this great earth releases my soul and falls and falls and falls.