#9

intoxicant iridescence recedes, leaving the ground beneath fallow, perhaps for good. there is nothing left for you here. vivacity is elsewhere, banished by black magicians with delusions of grandeur, at costs perpetually deferred until too late. what is it to be deprived of contact if not a kind of spell, as in dry. look around: crests have fallen, illusions dissipated. trees become barren. a tiny wheel in a big machine whose only function is to drain sputters, but this is by design. or, not design exactly, but in keeping with the mechanism’s propensity. design implies rationality. there is none. whirr and cough, there’s no need for niceties. this was a misery so eloquently denounced that it couldn’t help but return eternal. this enchantment is true to its meaning. whether a waste land is renewed depends on whom Scylla captured, et cetera desunt.