The vines were growing under his skin. Linquo could barely feel them, but they had to be there because the leaves were above him, because the flowers were budding along his stomach, because the splits in his body were growing with each passing day. He was dying. He had been dying. But it had been so long... when did the line between dying and dead get drawn? How did it happen? Was there a moment or just this eternity of tiny changes spread across forever?
If Linquo could have moved, he would have blinked, shaken his head, brushed off dirt. But instead he spread his neural net wider into the web, feeling out the sites and activity. The sun was going down, trolls were getting up. This was the beginning of the possibility of something... again. Every night was that. Every night a little farther.
<suspendedTransmundane:> a^other day passed
<suspendedTransmundane:> is a^yo^e readi^g this?
<suspendedTransmundane:> ive started to doubt that
<suspendedTransmundane:> i thi^k i^^ typi^g to a void
<suspendedTransmundane:> but thats okay
<suspendedTransmundane:> because there is^t ^^uch to be do^e ^ow
