8.

In this eye I saw, swimming in oil, a stuck receptacle of life own making.

But when she came, all coloured and vicious, she stared like flames burning my thumbs.

Before darkness shrouded a minute of time, she screamed through walls examples of their hubris- or mine, whichever the boiling point gave.

I switched beneath tentacles, hoping to grasp one and ease the aching in my over-dry wrist.

Thus before I shook my language and submission became glory, I felt the gentle whisper breeze along the canal and tell me- with a sharp stabbing;


“stop.”

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