we move from white to grey again, leaning and weaning, somewhat drugged by the fog in the air. where is master tespu? and what of these mounts?
the irrational logic of drainage appears.
we cross but, do we cross?
is it behind or inside us?
some drains are gutter white light, too false to be given divinity.
some drains are full of scavenger fish, the one Fadre and I let go, decades ago, on a night like this near a church.
they have multiplied
they have become distractions for trains.
this place is crowded with the greyish people.
everyone’s drugged by the fog in the air.
in a hall full of people, or at the end of an airport hanger, I see a man with a weapon. he is in a police uniform. he is yelling at people around him, mid range, I’m many many drains away. from where i am , he i s small and baliistic.
some drains are easy to cross.
others are chasmic
the man with the weapon is yelling in my face. he is a police officer.
the black drains seem the longest, no other way around it. it feels as familiar as the black forests we once got lost in. but there is no getting lost here. the drain runs from one horizon or the next. it does not consume as as much as it spaces us.
“there is no getting lost here, at the mountains of tespu”
the fog that drugs us come from the drains. a deep rooted magic. dank and deliberate. `
the police officer is now at close range, gun to my forehead, trigger ready.
I want him to shoot me because i know he is also my Fadre.