As we fall through the webs void, thumb on screen, pushing through it all, consuming its endless narrative. Plump off its milk, wonder if it’s all one story. A scroll that speaks quietly of an existence, an odd point of reference but physical. I say read it like Boustrophedon, back and forth in images, that hide and full, reverse and mirror. Not reminiscing, formatting a language, were images and space act as characters asking to be read. Lingering here in the past in hope of comprehension.
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