Faces morph and specify themselves the color of mud — with eyes that cast no shadow of memory; they have no light to speak of, candle-less dim cones that neither sear the surface of the moment nor singe the permanent life-scroll written and then locked away in some secret chest and buried. Still the radiant mahogany features live sometime, somewhen — under water and ground. Yet I am superterranean in essence, in my thoughtless feelingless glee.
Abruptly the smell of the world being new floods the room. I am in the room and the new-world-smell is on me. My mind is open and eyes closed; my name is the feeling of waves ebbing away from earth's grasp. The smell is primordial loam and petrichor and my thought is the color of mud.
words and images by @d-pend
created for HIVE on August 4, 2020.