IV. The Mechanical River
Useless compass. Memory.
Collective consciousness charred. Baked. Singed.
For every lost soul a river, hidden. Lost molecules assume a presence among the abstract song and dance of the infinite.
Deep below the crust, creeping floe of trust. The water trust. Condensation nation. Tribunal adulation.
Adoration of the tributary.
Flow flow. Sway. Seductive change.
So much change since this all began. Memory tarnished.
Life force dried leaving the tawny, coarse skin of a primitive.
Author of chasm, writer of deep dark places, setter of mean tones, self-buried.
Moist soul vestige volunteers for the guard, among droplets of web-burned ancestors. Ancient hum of wheels. The sound artists before the push. The mavericks and hobbyists, beaten and burned by the arid overworld turn the belts. Tone galt?
Troubled star rock demon-chased. Smile robbery 72 ticks north of the two-way. They file past. Makers of the past driven to this place so deep and enchanted away from glass. Union.
"In chaos we stand."
The mechanical river winds its way with its infinite shapes and sounds.
All of your forgotten heavens are there. Long before the saves there was a different kind of memory. You have foolishly charred your analog capacitor. You have lost the way, but it awaits you in a place powered by musical ideas hatched in the afterworld.
The tree in the desert drinks there.
The sudden genius has a foggy vision of there.
Your lost thoughts have retreated there, away from your sandy flame.
Sometimes, when you are contemplating a leap into that all bright chasm, a mystic well-bucket comes to you and replenishes you.
And sometimes it doesn't.