Wheeling Gull Isle lyotard

a mirror of a mirror, within a mirror. reflection, seen trough eyes, and eyes are liars, processing truth like removing small bones from a fish, rib after rib, until they won't scratch the esophagus upon swallowing.

real masters of reality let their throats bleed.

a single drop landed on the dog's nose. it lifted its head, to see the heavens swirl with grey.

"far." the newborn said, facing the sky. what entertainment, to place expressions onto the face of the man, who now sounded so diminished.

diminished, like his sanctuary had become.

"this one, has never been past the mountains. i wonder what's there."