Progressively entwining his entire being, the hardening reeds tightened, drawing him closer, to view the damage done, though only possible by the cutting of the tree, could he view the the stage he was at, observing the cull, the  story.

The inner, the centre, containing him, had given rise to his being.  Within the imagined patterns, odd distorted rings, delight and intrigue, an overwhelming attack, splaying out.


Drawn closer, only to be distracted by turning and noticing his long and delicate multi coloured entangled entrails, surrounding, trodden upon by black hard, sharply angled boots. He felt the palpitations pulsing though his spine, as if it where these very same crushing constrictions which provided his  intermittent light.

Sometimes..... complete halt, leading to a suffocation made it hard to breath, hard to concentrate on looking at the lines running round and round the story, were they separate?, as he saw with his eyes, the suffocation would pass, and the constricting pause would pass, the passing would pass.

They were never still.  He only  thought so.


As if besieged by an army,  though transient, never still, it was only he who stopped noticing where he really was. 

In the thick shit, camouflaged and imagining.



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