comb piece

several thousand tiny eyes

some routes are older paths than we remember in our dreams

the swarming real or unreal things seen vaguely through humidity

yet further, further from my face i remind myself of me

to explore the domain of evil until not a shred of mystery is left

the wildness and mossy wet; we haven't fully headed west

architecture is indifferent to cells, it feeds but will not speak

the universe acts as if everything were an enormous memory

the past is always here unseen, i now believe in ghosts