Mâlain Diaries 18 - Barbastelle
These
ceiling arbres
reaching
upwards
confuse
your
echo.
Your
sound-sight
searches
for
home,
but
the internal
bleeps
of
our synthetic
signals:
chaos.
Silk
wings,
100
million
years
the
progenitor
of
grapheme,
smash.
Species
within
scream
at
your
sight; not
the
tiny soft body,
of
creatures they
keep,
but
that über-
ability
to take flight,
skills
that elude them.
My ham-fisted,
earth-
sodden
ways
cannot
help
you
ascend
the
stratos.
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