Editing The Ocean

The Sea churns softly. Waves lap against waves lap against waves lap against waves lap against Waves. There is the sky, too. Greeting but separated, each claiming their own, the ultimate currency, matter. 



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The name of the God-Machine-Leviathan-Creature is Empty


Spires rise from the beach. Stone - Basalt - hexagon grid stretching into the distance. Sand, pale reflective flickers bluish gray, fractalizing the sky. The sky blurs with the land in impossible distance melting into the indistinct gray of light overworked till wan. The pillars stand stark and black against the backdrop, tar held aloft by the thaumaturgy of optical illusion. 


Umbilical fronds of pale pink and dripping red stretch into the sky. Figures, hazy in the dull gray light. suspended by the neck like the hanged. They-



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WAKE WAKE WAKE WAKE WAKE WAKE WAKE WAKE WAKE 


Water whorls in unnatural, regular fractal patterns. The great wave takes the beach, slamming against the black monoliths with calamitous force. Crashing, cracking, splintering sound cataclysmically loud. A few fall ponderously into the water, explosions of liquid, drops break the limits of the sky and are never returned to the Ocean, suspended and claimed by the sky. They coalesce as is their nature. The hanged figure's umbilical nooses twang, the strings of some galactic instrument, as they move closer to matter newly claimed by the air. Limbs unfurl from between space and time, a cacophony of arms and legs, extend to touch the forbidden once-separated material now returned to the sky. 


THEY KNOW HUNGER. THEY KNOW WHAT WAS DENIED. THEY KNOW THEY KNOW THEY KNOW 



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