July 16, 2024

Up the marble stairs to the mausoleum on soft-soled shoes, as not to make a sound, to lend reality in its absence. There is no gate—it rusted away years ago—and I pass over the threshold like a trapped spirit, molded in soft pulsating flesh, who, prisoned on the eternal Earth, has been lent a day of penance to appraise the estates of fallen giants.