Somnolence is arboring the ever-silent shell. Inside the gilded vaults the glare retreats before the water’s press, and azure planets spin the axes down to level pasture.
Bend it white – the light drips through the lens. Flesh glosses red. When eyes peer out of cabinents, alive. A humble ship could sail your body’s southbound hibernation. Floors of golden thread weave the messages, aligned by cosmic flux.
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