The resin structures in your lungs are reinforced by shards of plastic you inhaled. They grow together, following a fractal pattern. You look out at the fossilized something in the distance – prehuman waste management gone wrong. The plastic is likely tracing you via i8i. A carcass of binaries. We’ll have a ceremonial burn in USD.
As stipulated in our contractual agreement with Instagram: the eternal plane of suspension, sparkling, elysian blood breathes through the lapping waves of water, removed from coursing veins, as it tumbles in a rhythmic exchange of skin cells, iridescent fabric, crystalline salt, and halophilic bacteria. The horizon disappears to eyes born before we hug the sun. All of consciousness’ riders are put to unending sleep. Sensory deprivation lit by supple reflected beams. Life interrupting the continuity of oblivion. We do not know who made it. It is older than God.