‘ it’s a children’s game, ’ speaks the mother of all unliving things. she is most content in rot : the night takes a feverish interest in them ( they stand upon an isle cut into a perfect circle, a foggy lake surrounding them in a thin strip, the amorous haunting of a crocodile lurking below ). a mausoleum stands proudly behind them, hiding the strip of land that connects them to the fields and the house that lay in morning light. THIS, HOWEVER, IS A HELD BREATH OF DARKNESS. she holds a crossbow in her hands, trailing fingertips along the silver slick of metal. her smile is a purr, her eyes are alight : she has stolen the world and tucked it away in herself. ‘ you try to shoot the apple. do you want to put it on your head? ’ @stlazarus
